


Our Ghosts Are The Same

by VaultEscapeArtist



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 87,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaultEscapeArtist/pseuds/VaultEscapeArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aedan Cousland is sent to the Champion of Kirkwall banquet for a purpose other than simply sending His Majesty's congratulations. Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spirits

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Pairings:** Marian Hawke/Fenris, Cousland/Morrigan, Hawke/Cousland

**Chapter 1:** Spirits

**A/N:** This is my first ongoing Dragon Age fic so feedback would be _awesome_.

* * *

Aedan Cousland, Commander of the Grey in Amaranthine, emerged from the Deep Roads mostly unscathed. This particular entrance had lain unexplored in the Wending Wood for quite some time before one of the Dalish had thought to mention it to a passing Warden. Aedan stepped outside, took a breath of air that wasn't tainted by darkspawn rot, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. That last move was an unnecessary one. As usual, the sun was hidden by extensive masses of dark clouds, which was a blessing. After being in underground for so long it was a pain having to wait for one's eyes to adjust to natural light.

Ever since he had been announced Warden-Commander, Aedan had been advised against leaving Vigil's Keep for any reason, and especially not for extended voyages into the Deep Roads. In other words he had been told not to do any actual "Wardening". He still had no idea what idiot thought _that_ would actually bloody work.

This particular trip had been a short one, but he still took pride in the fact that they hadn't lost a single Warden. Granted, they had still ended up all covered with darkspawn blood and other unidentifiable slime, but they had all made it out alive. Their newest member, a former Circle mage Aedan had saved from the noose, was complaining about her current state of clothing.

"We all smell worse than a brothel privy during the hottest day of an Antivan summer. We're going to _bathe_ , right? The instant we get back to that bloody keep? Because if my first statement was unclear, we all smell like _shit_."

That description was so unnecessary that Aedan decided not to comment on it at all. His stomach was letting him know that a week on nothing but dried meat and stale bread was not cutting it. He quickly dug around in his pack for something to eat. He was infamous around Vigil's Keep for turning into a real hardass when he was hungry. Answering Sienna's complaints would be a waste of energy.

Arnaud Cartier, an ex-Orleasian Chevalier, on the other hand, thought _he_ had to respond to the mage's comments. "Sienna, darling, what _really_ needs washing is that mouth of yours. I can't imagine you learned that sort of language in the Circle."

The mage stopped scraping muck off her boots with a stick she had just picked up. She gave the Orleasian a sickly sweet smile and a toss of her chestnut brown hair. "Well, you have a poor imagination, then. Because the templar I pushed down those stairs was cussing up a _storm_ as he tumbled down. You know, they really should make that templar armor more flexible. He might have been able to stop himself from continuing to roll down then."

Aedan raised a hand to silence them both. "Stop talking before something big finds us and decides that as smelly as we are we'd still make a nice meal." The two of them shut up, not because of his words, but because of the cold glint in his eyes. Once he had their attention he then made Sienna take point and scout on ahead. As loud as she liked to be she was still the stealthiest of the bunch and her mage robes were much quieter than their clinking armor. She vanished into the woods ahead of them only to come back a few minutes later. Aedan's brow furrowed and he slid his longsword an inch out of its sheath. "Trouble?"

"I've usually heard him called Nathaniel, but Trouble's good, too." Sienna stepped to the side, allowing the archer in question to be seen.

Aedan relaxed, striding forward to meet the man halfway. "Howe, how nice to see you again."

Nathaniel rolled his grey eyes, but his expression remained grim and resolute. "Commander, you've received an urgent summons. From the King."

Sighing and ignoring the curious whispers of his men and women behind him, Aedan gave a very unlordly snort. "You mean from _Eamon_. Alistair wouldn't bother me for a visit. At least not urgently. Did you read it?"

"It had the King's seal on it and specific directions that said it was only for the eyes of the Warden-Commander and the consequence for disobedience was death by hanging."

"So...you read it?"

"Well, _yes_." Nathaniel began moving in the direction he had come from originally. "We'll talk at the Keep. The letter's contents are for a more _private_ conversation." He stressed that last statement quietly.

"Fine." Aedan had a growing feeling that he wasn't going to like this at all. If Nathaniel had hiked out to find him, the letter must have been pretty damn important. And if there were death threats on the envelope it was definitely from Eamon. "We'll continue this later. But first, we head home. And then...a bath."

Aedan and Nathaniel both ignored the shouts of approval from the others.

* * *

"Stop _shouting_!"

"Stop poking me!" Hawke shirked away from Anders's probing hands. "Leave it alone!"

"I have to dress the wound!" Anders caught one of her flailing wrists. "Hawke, this is a _serious_ wound. Even with my magic it's going to take time to heal. You're lucky the Arishok left your organs intact."

Hawke lied back down in her bed, growling and finally allowing Anders to do his work. "Yes," she drawled, ignoring the sharp prick of Anders's stitching needle. "When the Arishok put his sword through my gut and hoisted me up in the air I was thinking how _lucky_ I was that he missed my internal organs. I would have gone gambling, considering how _lucky_ I felt, but oddly enough I found I was bleeding all over the floor and couldn't walk on my own. But, boy, was I _lucky_ -"

Anders paused so he could frown down at her. "If you're going to be sarcastic..."

"Anders, right now all I have is sarcasm. Look at me!" she complained, making a sweeping gesture at herself. "I can't move which means I can't fight which makes me _useless_." Hawke pulled at her hair which had grown during her time as an invalid. She'd have to get Orana to cut if off for her. "I know Meredith made me Champion because of the little dance I had with the Arishok but I haven't done much Championing _here_ , have I?"

"I'm sure you'll feel much more Champion-like during the banquet." Anders finished stitching the wound and made her sit up so he could wrap it.

" _What_ banquet?" Hawke winced as the wrappings put pressure on her ribcage. Her ribs had been bruised a bit, a fact she discovered when Isabela popped over for a visit and told one of her damn jokes. Laughing with bruised ribs was not something Hawke wanted to experience ever again. Unfortunately, she laughed quite often. Mostly at her own jokes, but that couldn't be helped.

"The Champion's Banquet, they're calling it," he answered, helping her lie back down and taking a seat at the edge of her bed. "Aveline was supposed to tell you about it. They had to postpone it because of your wounds...And so all the Orleasian nobles could arrive in time."

"Orleasian nobles?" Hawke repeated sourly. Not just _Orleasians_ , not just _nobles_ , but _both_ at once. "Is this a reward or a punishment?"

Anders laughed in his quiet way. "It's _supposed_ to be a reward. The nobles will probably bring you things."

"Well, I like things," she decided at last. She didn't feel comfortable about having a banquet in her honor, but there was no polite way to refuse. At least there'd be free food. She finally looked to Anders, taking in his worn expression. She couldn't help feeling a bit guilty. She had heard his scream when the Arishok had got her. If Anders would just stop feeling so damn strongly about _everything_ , he might be able to find some peace. It was unlikely that he'd ever change, though. Hawke looked away from him and offered, "Are you going to stay? I could use some company. I'd talk to myself but I've run out of things to say."

He answered too fast. "I can stay for a bit."

He settled in while Hawke searched for a conversation topic. Suddenly she noticed Anders's eyes wander over to the lute she kept in her room. She stared him down and waited for it.

"Maybe I should play you something-"

"Get out."

He knew she meant it as a joke, but the sudden presence of another in the room made Anders take his leave anyway. "Well, look who _finally_ made it." Anders had stopped trying to hide his distaste of Fenris years ago. "Was the walk from your place to Hawke's too much for you? I can see how it'd be difficult to walk a few feet and then turn a corner-"

Hawke cut him off once more. "Anders, thank you for patching me up. If I manage to rip out the stitches or start bleeding all over the place I'll send Bodahn for you." This was the first time Fenris had visited her since the fight with the Arishok and she didn't need Anders getting him in a worse mood than usual.

"I'm going to check on you tomorrow," Anders told her sternly, brushing past Fenris and then heading downstairs. That left the two of them alone and with a heavy silence between them. Tired of everything always being so complicated with them, Hawke refused to speak first.

"I hope the mage did his job correctly," was all the elf said, grimly crossing his arms and leaning against her doorway.

Hawke closed her eyes before replying, "Anders _was_ going to go about it all proper, but I convinced him to perform the whole operation blindfolded. Then we played "pin the tail on the Arch-demon". I think we misplaced my spleen, though all in all it was still a good time." She snuck a peek at him only to find that same grimace on his face. She sighed and tired to sit up. "No response? Damn, the Arishok must've broken my funny bone. He broke everything else, so why not?" Fenris was even less amused by that. Her good humor left her and she decided to get straight to business. "Why did you decide to visit _now_? Why didn't you come when..." She really didn't want to say it. "When it wasn't certain that I'd make it."

He stepped out of the doorway then, his fists clenched. "Of _course_ I was here! I was out running errands for the mage! Would you have preferred that I had stayed by your bed, weeping uselessly like the witch was? What good would _that_ have done?" He paced a bit and glared down at the floor. "I had to take orders from the abomination. I need more towels, more of _this_ herb, more of _that_...It was endless," he snapped, his green eyes leaving the floor to focus on her. "But it got you well." He didn't mention that some of Anders's tasks seemed useless; made up excuses to keep him out of the mansion and away from Hawke.

Hawke wasn't sure how to look at him. She had been so out of it, so focused on her own pain that she hadn't known that Fenris had allowed himself to be ordered about by Anders. Merrill's worried sobbing had been hard to overlook, but she had somehow missed all of that.

"Oh. Thank you," she replied even though it was a stupid thing to say. She just needed to break the tension.

Fenris took a step back towards the door. He looked back at her with a fixed, blank expression on his face. "If you don't need anything I should let you rest."

She was tired of resting. She wanted to run even though she knew if she tried she'd just pass out before reaching the door. Hawke blew air at her bangs and informed him that she didn't want anything.

* * *

"But _what_ does Eamon want from me? What's his game plan?" Aedan Cousland was muttering mostly to himself as he climbed the stairs that led to his office. Since Nathaniel Howe was close at his heels he figured he was meant to answer.

"He wants you to suck up to Kirkwall's newest celebrity." Nathaniel ordered away the warden that was standing guard outside the Commander's study and closed the door behind them. He had told Aedan that this discussion was dangerous to any that might happen to overhear. Now that they were alone the Commander was bursting with questions.

"Eamon wants me to play nice with a Free Marcher? Why?"

"She's not a Free Marcher, actually. She's Ferelden."

This celebrity was a she? That didn't bode well. "I'm not going to marry her if that's what he wants." Aedan glanced up at his family sword and shield that were mounted on the wall. It was irritating to see that they were starting to gather dust. He had used them both when he had delivered the final blow to the Arch-demon, but now they were simply wall ornaments. Couslands did what was needed for Ferelden and nothing less. He was a Warden now, not a noble. He would use a Warden shield and blade, just as his men did.

"I don't _know_ if that's what he wants," Nathaniel admitted, shrugging. "Arl Eamon and King Alistair are on their way here as we speak. That's why I went to retrieve you."

"Alistair's coming?" Aedan asked curiously. He hadn't seen Alistair in... Damn. It had to have been at least a year since they had met and that time had been only a brief affair. A simple request for men and nothing more.

"Yes. And soon," Nathaniel clarified. "We should tell the men to prepare a sufficient welcome."

"Of course." Aedan waved him off. "Have a few scout ahead so they can alert us when Alistair and Eamon are close. Also, find out if any of the Wardens know anything about this woman in Kirkwall."

"Kirkwall has made her their Champion. Or so Delilah tells me." Nathaniel paused at the doorway to think for a moment. "Actually, I think her brother's a Warden. He runs with Stroud. Carver Hawke, I believe his name was."

"But I bet he's too far away to answer any of my questions about his sister," Aedan guessed, settling in to the chair behind his cluttered desk.

"He should still be in the Deep Roads by Kirkwall."

It figured. "Ah, well, find me anyone else willing to talk about the Champion. I don't like going into these sorts of things blind."

"I wouldn't either." Nathaniel nodded to him and left.

It wasn't long until Nathaniel had rooted out Vigil's Keep's biggest gossip and sent him Aedan's way. Soon enough Arnaud Cartier was sitting in the Warden-Comander's office, looking pleased at himself for no particular reason. "Commander," he grinned, still chewing on the apple he had been working on when Nathaniel had cornered him in the mess hall. "Nathaniel said you wanted the latest on Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, scourge of the undercity, and pain in the templars' collective asses. What do you want to know?"

Aedan knew little about Arnaud. He was one of the oldest Wardens they had. Evidently the Orleasian had been a Chevalier and a damn good one before he deflowered the wrong noble's daughter. A few words to the Empress and he was banished, stuck wandering Thedas for new work. When mercenary work didn't come with bed and breakfast he had found himself at Vigil's Keep with nothing better to do than chug a bit of darkspawn blood and then pass out. Aedan didn't know anything more about the man because Arnaud surprisingly never started any trouble.

Aedan stepped out from behind his desk and moved to stand in front of Arnaud. He had been called "Ferelden barbarian" enough times to know that he was a large man, especially for a human. Towering over Arnaud was not meant to intimidate him so much as remind him who he was speaking with. "Tell me about this woman. And make it short."

Arnaud waited until he could swallow his last bit of apple before he began. "You just want an overview of what I've heard?"

"That would be perfect."

"Fine," he agreed easily enough. "I only know about her time in Kirkwall. Everything I've heard about her life before sounds like bullshit." Arnaud quickly explained to Aedan that Marian Hawke had started life in Kirkwall as an apostate working for the Red Iron, a cutthroat mercenary band. She left after a year to form a motley crew to venture into the Deep Roads with. While she was down there her brother got the taint and was made a Warden while she got rich and went home. Her mother died in a bad way. There were too few mentions of it to be sure how it had happened. Eventually the Qunari staying in Kirkwall attacked and Hawke killed the Arishok in single combat. Arnaud had also mentioned something about her wrestling a dragon but Aedan was fairly certain that was all shit.

Aedan took the information in, though he failed to see how it concerned him or what Eamon wanted with this woman. Marian Hawke was an excellent example of Ferelden's infamous stubbornness, but she lived in Kirkwall now and had been for years. She didn't owe them her allegiance. What was Eamon hoping to get from her and why did _he_ need to be involved at all? Shaking his head, Aedan told Arnaud he could take his leave.

"If I might ask a question, Commander?" he said, his Orleasian accent somehow becoming thicker. He waited for Cousland to make the affirmative for him to go on. "Why are you asking about the Champion?"

"Have a nice rest of the evening, Cartier."

* * *

Hawke waited until she heard Bodahn and Orana both go to bed before she slipped out from beneath her covers and let her feet touch down on the carpet. Perhaps her entire day had been wasted, but that didn't mean her evening had to be a waste, too. Her mabari, Rebel, whined disapprovingly as Hawke tiptoed around him. "Quiet," she hushed him, giving him a quick scratch behind his ears. "I'll be back before anyone knows I'm gone." Even her hound didn't believe that.

The walk down her stairway was a slow one; her stitches made sure of that. She hurt _everywhere,_ but if she had to spend one more minute in bed she'd scream. Now she had to decide where she was going off to. The Hanged Man was out. If Varric or Isabela saw her they'd get Aveline or Fenris to drag her right back to bed. Hawke gingerly pulled on her boots once she made it out to Hightown. She was still thinking on where to go. All she knew was she wanted to _drink_. Quite a bit. And without anyone telling her she was in no shape to be out and about.

"Andraste's ass, Hawke. You look bloody _awful_."

The mage whirled around to see who had caught her outside. She relaxed at the sight of her old boss, Meeran. "Oh. It's _you_." She straightened up and instantly regretted it. Her ribs were protesting her every move.

Meeran's dark grey brows furrowed in irritation, an expression he had worn quite often when she had been working for him. "Of _course_ it's me, Hawke. And don't expect me to call you "Champion". I knew your name when nobody else bloody cared to. Remember that."

She chuckled. "Right." A thought hit her, which was followed by a wicked smile moving across her face. "Where are you off to, Meeran? Going to drink or whore yourself out?"

"Both," was his too honest reply.

"Well, I'll join you for the first part. I think you owe me a drink or two. Or possibly seven. We'll decide that later." Hawke grinned up at him, waiting for his answer.

Meeran grumbled something about snarky Fereldens. He said to her, "What makes you think I owe you a drink?"

Hawke didn't smile that time. "I _could_ list all the times I saved your unshapely ass _or_ we could just get to drinking." She crossed her arms stiffly. "Your choice."

"We drink."

That didn't take him long. Hawke followed him to the Blooming Rose, grateful that her mother wasn't there to see them. She asked Meeran about the Red Iron until he cut her off with his own, rather direct question. "Why aren't you out drinking with your weird friends?"

That was definitely not something she wished to discuss with anyone, especially not with _Meeran_ of all people. But the answer left her lips anyway. "They think I should spend my time licking my wounds. I'm surprised Aveline hasn't posted guards outside my house to keep me from escaping."

"It doesn't seem they know you all that well." Meeran walked right up to the bar to order their drinks. Hawke was having trouble just getting past the door. As soon as they had entered the brothel she had heard excited cries of "Champion" and "it's Hawke!" At this rate all of Kirkwall would know she was there before morning. She managed to elbow her way past the throng with only leaving a few broken noses and bruises behind her.

" _Ale_. I need ale." Hawke clawed at Meeran's sleeve until he shoved a pint into her hands.

She was allowed to drink in peace, for awhile. Hearing her name amongst the patrons' whispers _was_ a little unnerving. Thankfully, the more she drank the less she focused on their chatter. When Meeran spoke next she nearly spit out her drink.

"D'you remember when I asked if your mother was single? You broke my jaw."

Hawke glanced sideways at him, chuckling. "She was _so_ out of your league. I was doing you a favor before you embarrassed yourself. That and my mother hated you."

Meeran took a pitcher from one of the girls and refilled Hawke's drink. "I realize your mother wasn't my biggest fan, Hawke, but no one deserved to go out like that." Hawke's posture stiffened visibly. "I heard the bastard had an apprentice who the guards let get away. The Red Iron wouldn't make that mistake. You of all people should know that."

Looking morosely down at her drink, she asked, "How much'll that cost me? And...can I help?"

"Buy the drinks next time: we'll call it even. And we wouldn't let anyone else kill him, Hawke."

" _Next_ time? Like I just can't wait to hang out with you again," she muttered, setting her drink down even though it was doing wonders for the pain.

Meeran watched her stare at her empty cup. "You don't feel like drinking anymore."

"No, I feel like drinking _more_."

* * *

When Nathaniel told Aedan that the King's Guard had been sighted, he took a few bottles down from the cabinets where he stored his spirits. He wasn't a big drinker at all, but he was going to need it to deal with Eamon. Aedan ordered Nathaniel to the front of the Keep. "Right, Commander. The King will just love being greeted by a _Howe_."

"He's being greeted by a Warden. Now go." He had decided to wait in his office. There was no doubt that they'd end up there eventually for the talk and Aedan wanted to speed things along. Sure enough Eamon and Alistair both entered his office; Eamon looking as imperious as ever and Alistair looking simply pleased to be away from court. Aedan moved out to meet them, taking a quick knee in front of Alistair. It was still an odd thing, kneeling before someone that often forgot to change his socks. "My king. Arl," he stood up, acknowledging them both.

"Warden," Eamon responded tersely.

That grated on his nerves a tad. He answered it coolly. "Add a " _commander_ " after that and _then_ you'll be addressing me correctly." Aedan noticed the Arl turn an unnatural color and hid a smile skillfully.

Before Eamon could have a chance to respond, Alistair cut in and saved them all from another awkward show down. "Aedan! You're looking...Well, the _Keep_ looks good. Less darkspawn blood around than my last visit. The smell has improved _tremendously_ -"

Aedan stopped him, saying, "All right, Alistair. I'll be nice. Just tell me what this-" He waved the letter in question around. "-is about."

Alistair spread out his hands as if in apology. "Ah, _well_. I might mention that I had mentioned that this sort of thing wasn't your sort of thing."

Whatever _that_ meant. Aedan was forced to turn to the Arl for an explanation. Eamon slowly took off his riding gloves, tossing them on Aedan's desk. "The nobles in Kirkwall are hosting a banquet for their Champion, that Hawke woman. She's Ferelden and we should therefore send an ambassador to deliver His Majesty's congratulations and gratitude. You're the most suitable by far. You're highborn _and_ you're well known, even in the Free Marches. You will go and present her with some sort of boon. A sword or shield from the royal armory."

"I thought she was a _mage_. What would she want a sword for?" Eamon was asking him to attend some stuffed shirt affair? He couldn't think of anything he'd like less. "Surely just a letter would have sufficed? There's no reason to keep this all hushed up."

"But there is," Eamon corrected him. "We want her to spy for Ferelden. And you're to make certain that happens."

* * *

" _Hawke_."

Meeran, Hawke, and a few other Red Iron mercs had moved from the Blooming Rose's main bar to one of the side rooms. Only Hawke bothered to find the source of this new voice. "Aveline?" Hawke turned from the table, looking rather startled at the sight of her large, armored friend in the Blooming Rose. Her expression turned sour. "Have you been _spying_ on me?"

The Captain of the Guard crossed her arms, frowning as Hawke poured herself another drink. She sent an especially stern glare Meeran's direction. "You've just been named Champion. And you've never kept a low profile before. It was only a matter of time before one of us found you."

"Unless you're here to drink, Aveline, I'm going to have to say goodnight." Hawke turned back to watch Meeran arm wrestle the Red Iron's newest recruit. "I have good money on you, Meeran. Don't let me down now, you old jackass."

"Shut _up_ , Hawke."

Hawke only laughed and then yelled as her ribs protested the unnecessary movement. "Oooh, that _hurt_." In the glass bottle she was getting her spirits from she caught her reflection for a moment. The left side of her face was one big bruise, purple and yellow and nasty. "Well, I've had worse days," she finally decided, touching the bruise with awe.

Hawke couldn't overlook the fact Aveline was being oddly quiet and was _not_ dragging her out of brothel by her hair. Not wanting to think too hard about it, Hawke poured herself more spirits. When she tried to take a drink, a clawed gauntlet covered the top of her mug and pushed it back down onto the table. "Hey, buddy. Hands _off_ ," she snarled and found herself looking up into a pair of familiar and very green eyes. Her usually eloquent tongue was at a loss for once. "Fenris? Well. Shit."

 


	2. Hunger

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Chapter 2:** Hunger

**A/N:** So I'm nearly finished reading David Gaider's _Asunder_ and I've realized there's a templar named Arnaud. He's a minor character, but I wish I would have known what his name was before I named my Orleasian Warden that. Ah, well. At least I know I picked a name that an Orleasian would actually have. Anyway, this chapter is Hawke heavy, but it'll even out later.

Those of you who are following this... _you're awesome._

* * *

Hawke was grateful that Meeran and the other Red Iron mercenaries were too busy with their own drinking and whoring to notice the little scene playing out in front of them. Fenris still had a hand over her drink and was glaring down at her quite impressively. She glared right back at him, striving for the same level of grim disapproval that he had. It didn't quite work; Hawke just couldn't mimic that angry downward tilt of his eyebrows. "Well," she finally said through gritted teeth. "You got here fast. Did you just happen to be in the neighborhood? I didn't realize your late night brooding session allowed for a midnight stroll." She was being unnecessarily snarky, she knew that. The words tumbled out regardless.

Fenris was oddly cool. He didn't take her bait; he simply looked around the room, eying the company Hawke had chosen to surround herself with. His mouth remained a fine, thin line. "Are you ready to go?"

Hawke blinked at him uncertainly. She hadn't expected _that_ incredibly civil reaction. What she had expected was for Fenris to storm in, pace a bit while insulting the company she was with, and _then_ he'd tell her she had to leave. What he was doing now, being rational, had thrown her off.

Her first instinct was to say "no" until she overheard that Meeran had won the arm wrestling contest that had been going on at the table behind her. She had actually been betting against him. With the coin she had forgotten to bring with her. "Yes. Yes, let's go." If Aveline or Fenris were surprised at her sudden willingness to leave they didn't bother to show it. Instead they helped her limp out of the Blooming Rose and into the Hightown night. That was where Aveline parted ways from the rest of their little party. But only after she told Fenris to "look after her".

Hawke quickly rounded on Fenris the second they couldn't hear Aveline's clunking boots anymore. She snapped at him, her eyes flashing. " _Despite_ what you all may think, I don't need anyone swooping in to save me from the big, bad Red Iron."

"Because _Meeran_ has _nothing_ but your best interests at heart." Fenris spat off to the side, his previous calm now long gone. "If you must go out try spending your time with someone who _isn't_ likely to stab you in the back."

He wasn't very wrong there. "Okay, so I make bad life decisions. I thought everyone already knew that about me." She kicked at the ground just for something to do. Her head was beginning to hurt. "I mean, I dragged my baby brother into the _Deep Roads._ That right there is a prime example of poor decision making."

" _Hawke_ ," Fenris called out to her quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of those that prowled Hightown during the dark.

"No, no, no," she stopped him right there. She didn't want him to hopelessly try to make her feel better. Not when she was acting like a bitter Orleasian spinster. "I'm drunk, Fenris. I don't know what's coming out of my mouth. And for your information I _like_ Meeran. He is a shady son of a mabari bitch and he's only just recently stopped looking at my ass, but he owns it." And Meeran was the one who had pointed her in Anso's direction, instead of taking the job himself. Maybe because he had felt bad about using her and her brother. She liked to think that. Regardless of Meeran's possible motives, he was the reason she had even _met_ Fenris. And for that she couldn't help but feel an odd liking for Meeran, even though the man was sort of an ass. "Anyway, I'm leaving so I can be sick in the peace and comfort of my own home."

"That's a lovely image."

Hawke could only manage a short, tired laugh for that. "Don't think about it too hard. And don't follow me."

"We live in the same direction."

If Hawke heard his answer, she gave no sign. She had turned herself around quickly and made he way slowly back to the estate. Fenris waited a few minutes before he followed her, his bare feet silent on the stone they walked on. He knew that she knew he was behind her, but her pace neither slowed down so he could catch up nor did it speed up so she could lose him.

For once there were no criminals or raiders popping out of the shadows at her and Hawke couldn't have been more relieved. The last thing she needed was to be attacked and have to rely on Fenris, who was still behind her, to come and save her currently useless ass.

Her estate came into view not a moment too soon. She opened the door, locking it behind her and trying not wake anyone. Especially not her mabari. Being tackled with affection by her dog did not sound like a good time.

Rebel was up in her room sound asleep, kicking and growling in his dreams. Hawke knelt and scratched him under his chin. "Get the rabbit, boy. Go chase that rabbit." Rebel's kicking doubled in speed before he gave up the hunt and rolled over onto his belly.

It took Hawke a full minute to stand up without hurting herself. As she was standing, a glint of light caught her eye and she went to investigate. The tall, ridiculously ornate mirror her mother had bought for her a few birthdays past stood out to her. It suddenly occurred to her why. She hadn't looked at herself since her duel so the extent of her injuries had remained a mystery to her. Perhaps now was the time to change that. Hawke snapped her fingers and the torches around her room lit up. That small bit of magic cheered her up immensely, though she couldn't ignore the fatigue that quickly followed. Stepping in front of the mirror, she took her reflection in.

"Oh."

She had known her face was bruised, probably from when the Arishok had headbutted her and caused her to skid across the floor. The right corner of her mouth was split open and was only just beginning to heal. Another scar. She was just racking 'em up, wasn't she?

Hawke shrugged out of her shirt, letting it fall to the floor. Forget the scar on her lip, the one that'd be on her torso was going to be _much_ more impressive. The long, red wound ranged from her clavicle to just under her ribs. How she had managed to walk after that, she didn't know. How she had killed the Arishok after that was even less clear.

Maybe the wound should have made her feel vulnerable. It didn't.

It made her realize she was not someone to be underestimated.

* * *

"You want Hawke to _spy_ for Ferelden?" Aedan calmly repeated the information Eamon had just dropped on him. "I think you underestimate this woman's loyalty."

"Her _loyalty_ to Ferelden is the reason we need her-"

" _No_ ," Aedan straightened up, throwing his shoulders back as he did so. "This woman was labeled an apostate by Ferelden's Templars. In Kirkwall the Templars call her _Champion_. Where do _you_ think her loyalty lies?" He picked up Eamon's riding gloves off of his desk and tossed them back to their owner. "I'll go to this banquet if I absolutely must, but ask this woman to spy on her own city? That I won't do."

Eamon wasn't pleased by that response. "Your King is asking you to-"

" _Alistair_ hasn't asked me to do anything, Arl. Not yet." Aedan took a seat at his desk, wishing he had a more organized filing system. The piles of paper everywhere were less than stately.

"Aedan, perhaps _spy_ isn't the best term." Alistair had picked up one of the broken shields Aedan still needed to send to the armory for repairs. "You know Ferelden isn't at its strongest. We don't have an extensive spy network like Orlais. It's looking like we're going to need one."

Aedan couldn't pretend like he didn't already know all that. Even hold up in his Keep he managed to keep an eye on the Kingdom's latest problems, just in case Alistair needed an ally. Finally he said, his voice steady and sincere, "As my King commands. It will be done. I'll head to Amaranthine as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Aedan. And, hey, maybe you'll be surrounded by Orleasians, but you'll miss our Ferelden winter."

Alistair's smile was met icily. "I _like_ the cold."

"Of course you do." Alistair shrugged, putting the dented shield back where it belonged. "Eamon and I are just going to walk the rounds, talk to the men and women a bit, and then we'll be out of what little hair you have left."

"Ha." Aedan gave them each a nod; he wasn't kneeling _twice_. Alistair waved farewell in a very un-kingly manner. Eamon followed him out, leaving the door open behind him. The suddenly open door gave Aedan's mabari, Moira, the chance to charge inside. Aedan rushed to try to put all the papers on his desk away, but it was too late. Moira jumped a top his desk, scattering paper and quills everywhere. The hound dropped onto Aedan's lap next, barking and slobbering until Aedan gave her a quick scratch.

"Ah. Arl Eamon said you'd be in here." A man entered, knocking on the door frame as he stepped inside. "I haven't seen you in a long time, little brother."

" _Fergus_?" Aedan had never guessed that his own brother would be riding with the King. Moira got excited and, using his lap as a launching pad, jumped at his brother. Fergus gave the dog that same sad smile he managed only when he felt he absolutely needed to and knelt down to give the dog his full attention. "Hello, girl."

"That's my war dog you're petting there. If she bites it's your own damn fault." Aedan watched his brother closely. Fergus had lost more at the hands of Arl Howe than Aedan had. His wife, his son... Fergus usually avoided Vigil's Keep. Nathaniel Howe shared too strong of a physical resemblance to his father for Fergus to feel comfortable in his presence. Aedan told him sternly, "You look thin."

"So do you," was his brother's quick reply.

" _I_ was in the Deep Roads. There's only so much food one can bring without taking a packhorse along. And horses do _not_ like the Deep Roads. Anyway, what's _your_ excuse? You have the entire kitchen staff waiting to cook for you." Aedan gave a sharp whistle and Moira raised her head high, waiting for orders. "Moira, go bother Oghren." She ran off at once, nearly knocking Fergus down as she went by.

"The food's not the same. Nan, she's...not...there anymore." Fergus barely finished the sentence. He let his brother awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. "It'd be easier, you know, if you came around a bit more. Or at all."

Aedan looked down at him coldly. "You know why I can't go back there."

"Things have settled down," Fergus protested, his blue eyes pleading. "Perhaps this time-"

" _No_." Aedan felt guilty about refusing his brother's only request, but he could not go back to Highever. For reasons he did not care to dwell over. Aedan nodded toward the door. "Perhaps we both should get something to eat. Our cook isn't Nan, either, but he's fair enough for what he has to work with."

Fergus agreed, leading the way out and allowing his brother to see how much grey had slipped into his hair over the years. Aedan would have remarked on it, but his stomach growled and stopped all thought that wasn't about food.

* * *

Hawke wondered briefly if Rebel was intelligent enough to make her a sandwich. This was _so_ typical of herself. As soon as Hawke had finished undressing for bed, her stomach had made a series of growls that she swore should have woken up all of Kirkwall. If anyone had heard her stomach's pleas, however, none of them had rushed to her rescue with a steak or bit of stew.

Irritated and starving, Hawke dragged herself out of her bed and headed for the door when the growling got louder. She nearly hushed her own stomach before she realized it was her mabari making all the noise and not herself. "What is it, boy?" Hawke forced her torches to glow a little brighter, giving her enough light to see a figure move gracefully out of the shadows and into her bedroom.

"You have a smart courser, dog lord. But I had anticipated that." The figure, a man, pulled something off his belt and threw it at the ground in front of them. Whatever he had thrown exploded into a burst of green, toxic gas and it quickly filled Hawke's small room.

Hawke cursed, stepping backwards and covering her nose and mouth with the back of her hand. She could hear Rebel, not knowing what was going on, gagging on the fumes somewhere to her left. Her dog cried for her and it killed Hawke to be unable to help. She knew she wasn't going to be able to physically overpower her foe; she'd have to make like the Dread Wolf and out trick him.

Unable to see though the smoke, Hawke willed the torchlight to vanish, leaving all of them in complete darkness. It was meant to give her the upper hand, seeing as she would know her way around her own home better than this intruder would. It backfired. Hawke stumbled over Rebel on her way out her bedroom door. She made for the stairs, running blindly and hoping Rebel was trying to make it out as well. Hawke never saw the trip wire on her stairway. It caught on her bare foot and set off the explosives the bastard had attached to her century old stone wall. Hawke was thrown to the side by the explosion, right over the railing of her staircase. She hit the floor hard and her face bounced off the stone, causing her vision to swim.

Hawke didn't remember the next few moments that passed. Her new head wound made sure of that. How she sat up she wasn't sure, but Hawke was able to watch the assassin slowly strut down what was left of her stairs. The railing with Isabela's infamous carvings was mostly gone, but that wasn't important right then. Instead Hawke took slow stock of her injuries, feeling her hairline for any serious head wounds. She found one. Already her forehead was slick with blood, blood that would soon obscure her vision. A few of her stitches had been ripped out as well. Anders would be less than pleased.

Hawke waited for her adrenaline to kick in, for her fear to give her strength. That didn't happen. She realized she had no fear. Why wasn't she afraid? Unless something happened quickly to turn the battle in her favor, she was going to _die_. The assassin pulled out a short sword and waved it around in order to recapture her attention. She examined the blade for a clue to who its owner could be. It was plain and cheaply made. That was really insulting. He was going to kill her with that? She'd bet it didn't even have a _name_. She'd be damned if she was killed with a blade that wasn't named Kinslayer or Widowmaker or even Claude. Something.

Evidently Rebel shared her thoughts because her mabari flew at the man, his teeth weakly snapping at the assassin's calves. Hawke winced when he kicked her dog full in the stomach with his metal covered boots. Rebel, already weak from the poison, fell over and stayed down.

"You shouldn't have left yourself alone, _Champion_."

She couldn't tear her eyes away from her deathly still dog, even though imminent danger was descending the stairs. Suddenly she realized why she wasn't afraid. Laughter erupted and she let it out gladly. "You think you're _safe_ because I'm _alone_?" He stopped at that, confused and angry. His face flushed red; she could feel his blood flowing under his skin. And then she could feel it boiling.

The blade fell to the floor and its owner lie convulsing on the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream. His back arched and relaxed, over and over, as if that would help with the pain. The spell didn't last long; Hawke's mana was still drained from her fight with the Arishok and she was too wounded to rely on her own blood to fuel her spells. She could, however, use his blood to heal herself _or_ someone else.

"B-blood mage." He stared down at her wildly with his boring, mud colored eyes. "The dwarf didn't say-"

"He doesn't know." Now she knew what had brought this assassin here; _glory_. Varric loved to talk her up and it had attracted trouble for her before. Everyone wanted to be the one to kill "the Hawke". What would that get them, though? Bragging rights? A mild sense of accomplishment? "I'm only a blood mage when I'm _alone_."

Her spell wore off and he was able to get to his feet now. She couldn't stop him or even move as he stormed toward her. His thick fingers went for her throat, ignoring her futile attempts to push him away. He spat on her. " _Look_ at you. You can't even stand! Whatever you did, it didn't help you."

"It wasn't meant to help _me_."

The look on his face was bloody priceless as he realized dimly what was about to happen. Newly revived from Hawke's blood spell, Rebel launched himself from the top of the stairs. Hawke felt the pressure around her throat lessen and as soon as it did she used her forearms to crawl away.

The assassin was screaming like a babe. He _really_ shouldn't have kicked her dog. Rebel could hold a grudge.

Hawke tried to wipe her face, but she only managed to smear the blood. Eventually the screaming ceased all together. Hawke could sense his life leave him; his remaining energy was ebbing off him in waves. She drank it in. The almost assassin's appearance had nearly torn down her home, but it was good for one thing. His death allowed her to use a spell that her father's old books called "grave robber".

She needed to be able to move so she used his blood first to close up the reopened wound on her chest. Her now broken ribs were next. She couldn't fix them entirely, but it was a major improvement. Well, it was enough to try standing. Hawke got up, stumbled about like a Lowtown drunk, and immediately went to check on her dog.

Rebel had benefited considerably from her first blood spell, though it wasn't quite enough. The poison from earlier had got to him and Hawke didn't have the skill to draw it out. She needed Anders, and quickly. At this time of night he was probably at The Hanged Man, chatting with Varric. Hawke picked up her dog and placed him in her study. "Hold on, boy," she whispered hoarsely. "Just stay still." She received a quiet bark for an answer.

Hawk limped upstairs and held her breath before she ran into her room. She ran to the windows and opened every last one of them, hoping to clear out the poisonous vapors. She grabbed a pair of black breeches, a white linen shirt, and one of her dark, hooded cloaks. It wasn't until she made it back down her partially demolished stairs that she realized she had left her boots in her room. She really didn't have the strength, time, nor the patience to go all the way back up to retrieve them. She'd simply be Dalish for a night.

Once she dressed and weakly laughed about how she had fought and killed the assassin while practically naked, she pulled her hood down over her face. She wasn't sure how bad she looked and she didn't need anyone else "trying the Champion". Unrecognized, she ran through Hightown and then Lowtown. Her staff was back at her mansion; she only had a small dagger on her. Her plan was, if she ran into trouble, that all she'd have to do was take off her hood and let them see her face. They'd soon be running for somewhere less frightening, the Tevinter Imperium, the Deep Roads, the Void... _Anywhere_ else.

The Hanged Man was busy, filled with patrons that already had a little too much to drink if one could judge from their drunken singing.

* * *

"What are they singing?" Fergus seemed intrigued by something at the far end of the Keep's mess hall.

Aedan glanced behind him, watching the commotion with a short laugh. "They were Dalish before they were Wardens. I couldn't tell you what they're saying." That answer was only partially true; Aedan recognized a few of the song's lyrics. He just didn't feel like translating. He needed to talk with his brother. "Fergus, why are you traveling with the King's Guard?"

His brother ran a hand through his hair. "They came to Highever, wanting to know if I thought you'd comply with their little scheme."

Of course. "And what did you tell them?"

"That you're a Cousland. You will do your duty for Ferelden. I also told them that _you'd_ decide what Ferelden needed from you and no one else would ever convince you otherwise."

Aedan had to smile at that. _This_ was the brother he remembered. _This_ was the man Arl Rendon Howe had stolen from him. "And they asked you to come along anyway?"

"I volunteered."

Aedan halted their conversation while one of the servants came with their food, a good, hearty Ferelden stew. It was bland and spiceless, but so was most Ferelden cuisine. It was also filling and warm and that was the important thing. Once the food was served, Aedan motioned for him to continue. "Why would you do that?"

"I...I need to talk to you...about something."

"How evasive." Aedan swallowed some stew and grimaced. "It's bad, then? What is it? Is there something happening in Highever?"

"No. Well, there's talk. Questions being asked." Fergus picked at his stew, stirring the potatoes around listlessly. "About who the next Teryn will be."

Aedan's brow crinkled. "If I'm still alive, it'll be me." He looked down from his brother and into his bowl. It was empty of any meat, potatoes, vegetables and now was only a simple broth. He brought the bowl to his lips and drank the rest of it down without shame. "So what's the problem?"

"Who's going to be Teryn after you. _That's_ the problem."

Those words knocked the wind out of him faster than any ogre ever could. " _What_?"

Fergus spread his hands and then tore at his hair with them. "I don't want to ask you this. I know this," he gestured to the walls around them, "is where you belong. Where your duty lies. But our family _needs_ an heir. And I can't..."

Aedan pulled Fergus's hands away before he could do any lasting damage to that long mane of his. "Fergus, brother, would it be so bad if you remarried?" He winced as he said that and felt even worse when he saw the look Fergus gave him when he finally raised his head.

"I tried. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I couldn't do it myself."

The noise of the mess hall faded away as Aedan considered the situation. He had known Fergus had never truly recovered from the death, no, _murder_ of his wife and child. The idea of marrying again after what had happened the first time... Aedan could see why Fergus was having issues. He asked Fergus, though he expected he already knew the answer, "What would you have of me?"

Fergus took his time answering, as though he was still deciding what to do. "You must marry a member of the nobility and produce an heir."

* * *

Sienna ran through the halls of Vigil's Keep and out of the main entrance. She waved to the poor sods that had pulled guard duty in such awful weather. Having lived in the Circle as long as she could remember, she really didn't know what it was like to be cold. And Ferelden was known for little else. When one thought of the country they thought of mabari, turnips, and the _cold_.

She ran around the Keep, glancing up at the guard towers until she found the one that that Orlesian was supposed to be in. Sienna set her staff against the side of the tower before she jumped up and grabbed the nearest window ledge. She had climbed towers before. In fact, she had done little else while she was housed in the Ferelden Circle. The mages were locked in at night and her best and only friend there had lived three floors above her. Sienna wasn't foolish enough to risk sneaking out into the halls to visit him and risk running into the templars. Climbing out her window and then clawing her way three floors up was much, _much_ safer.

Vigil's Keep was easier to climb than the Circle had been; the outside was broken and old which provided for more handholds. Sienna was up at the top of the guard tower in less than twenty minutes. She climbed through the nearest opening, dropping gracefully onto the floor. Arnaud was half asleep at his post when she popped in to see him. He looked at her twice before he screamed. She backed up a step. "Hello to you, too."

Arnaud started cursing her in his strange language. Finally he settled down enough to remember what country he was in. "Are you out of your _mind_?" He stomped over. "Or are you possessed?"

"Some claim that I'm possessed by a demon of mass seduction, but that's never been proven." Sienna sat on the floor and stretched her legs. "Anyway, I have news."

"Why didn't you just take the _stairs_?"

"Do you know how _old_ those stairs are? It's a bloody death trap." Sienna waved a hand at him dismissively. "Just listen-"

"And why are you talking to _me_?"

She rolled her eyes, tired of his interruptions. "I'm new here. _I_ don't have friends. _You_ don't have friends. So we're stuck with each other. That's how it worked in the Circle, at least. _Now_ can I talk?"

Arnaud shrugged noncommittally. "Sure. Fine."

"Thank the Maker," she growled and kept going. "I was in the mess hall and I have this eavesdropping spell I invented some time ago-"

His snort was unappreciated. "That seems a deserving use of your talents. How _does_ the Circle get on without you?"

Sienna kicked at his legs viciously. "They have less dead templars so they consider it a fair trade. _Now let me speak!_ " She waited a minute to make certain he would not interrupt her another time. "I overheard the Warden-Commander speaking with his brother." She paused for dramatic effect. "The Commander has to _marry_ and produce a child. All to carry on the Cousland family name." Laughing excitedly, she asked him, "Who do you think it'll be? Who'll be _Lady_ Warden-Commander?"

Arnaud was looking at her oddly. "I actually had a talk with the Warden-Commander recently. And because of the little conversation that we had I have the strange feeling that I already _know_."


	3. Frustration

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Chapter 3:** Frustration

* * *

The Warden-Commander was in a terrible mood. Everyone that knew better stayed out of his way as he furiously paced the halls. Vigil's Keep's security had tightened considerably since the King's Guard had arrived. Anyone caught slacking, and Aedan did catch quite a few of them sleeping as he roamed the halls, were told they had just earned every Warden in the Keep a special punishment. They were _not_ told what the it was or when the punishment would take place, however. They waited anxiously for further orders.

After the King and his guard had left Aedan Cousland had announced that he was doubling their daily training exercises. What was worse was the fact that he also informed them that he would be leading them himself. This was met with a chorus of groans and complaints, along with a few tears. Regular training was strenuous at best. With Cousland in charge half of them would be puking their guts out before noon. They was no complaining, though. Cousland did all their drills right with them, and with heavy plate on. They had to keep silent because their Commander was puking right there with them.

Only Arnaud and Sienna knew what had sparked this latest project. When the Commander was pissed, he found a positive outlet. And if he couldn't find one he _made_ one.

It was all good and well that Aedan like to keep busy, but did he have to involve the rest of them? Arnaud grumbled those thoughts out loud as he did his fiftieth pushup. Sienna was beside him, still on push up number thirty. He didn't imagine the Templars made the mages do much vigorous exercise. _He_ was only keeping up because of his old training as a Chevalier. "I'm too old for this," he moaned the cliché as his nose touched the ground lightly. Sienna somehow managed to giggle between breaths. Maker, the mage was clinging to him like a leech. It didn't seem likely that he'd be able to get rid of her.

"I know he's pissed about getting married, but can't he take up knitting or crocheting? Or, better yet, he could find a tavern wench and-"

Arnaud burst out laughing and almost couldn't lift himself off the ground. The idea of the Warden-Commander nonchalantly walking into one of Amaranthine's taverns and trying to seduce one of the barmaids was ridiculous. Perhaps this mage wouldn't be such a pain.

"Something _amusing_ , Cartier?" The Commander had broken off from the drill so that he could monitor everyone's progress. "I thought I had recruited a _Chevalier._ Right now it seems I have an Orleasian court jester on my hands. Well," he said, picking Arnaud up by the back of his shirt. "If you can find such humor down in the mud I can't _imagine_ what jokes you'll discover on the Point's staircase." Arnaud blanched; the Point was Vigil's Keep's tallest tower. Cousland gave him a light push in its direction. "Run up and down the staircase until you've stopped laughing."

"Oh, I believe I've stopped laughing already."

The Commander, surprisingly, did not believe him. "Go. And take Warden Sienna with you. I saw her giggling earlier." He turned to the rest of the Wardens, shouting, "If any of the rest of you want to follow in their footsteps you can still catch up with King Alistair. Perhaps _he's_ in need of a jester for I have no use of one here."

Arnaud didn't want to hear the rest of it. He jogged to the Point's base, not waiting to see if Sienna was following him. He should have known better. She was young, she _wanted_ what was normally considered unwanted attention. But he was over forty. He couldn't deal with such nonsense like running up an impossibly tall staircase.

She was better at running than she was at pushups. Sienna caught up to him quickly and grabbed his arm once they reached the top of the Point. "Now that we can talk-"

"Talk?" Arnaud repeated, gasping. "I can barely _breathe_."

She was undeterred. "I wanted to discuss the Commander's situation."

Arnaud growled at her. "Leave it be. He doesn't need our help in the matter and he definitely doesn't need us gossiping."

"But you're _Orleasian_. Surely you must want to play matchmaker for the Commander?" Sienna looked up at him expectantly. Arnaud just stared back at her, open-mouthed.

"That's rascist. You're a rascist." He started back down the stairs. "Not all Orleasians like muddling in the love affairs of others, you bloody turnip."

"Hey!" She stumbled down after him. "He needs help! Can you imagine him trying to court anyone? _Here, love, I brought you back this darkspawn skull! Won't it look lovely above the fireplace?_ " Her impersonation of the Commander was less than flattering.

Arnaud rolled his eyes and kept going downwards. "It's nice that you're concerned, but what makes you think he'll come to _us_?" He was suddenly regretting that second helping of eggs.

* * *

After training was finished, Aedan went to his office feeling very unsatisfied. And hungry. The morning drills had caused himself and half of his men to vomit what little breakfast they had dared to eat. Now that his stomach had finally settled down it was begging to be filled again.

When Nathaniel finally turned up Aedan was working on his third plate of breads, fruits, and cheeses. He tossed an apple at the archer, saying, "It's about time you showed. We need to talk."

Nathaniel ducked under the thrown apple out of reflex before he realized Aedan had meant for him to catch it. Recovering, he smirked, "I heard there's going to be wedding bells soon."

Aedan didn't join in the joke. He told Nathaniel seriously, "Don't remind me."

"Wait. That rumor's _true_?"

"Unfortunately."

Nathaniel seemed amused by his misery. "Ah, _that's_ why you're torturing the recruits. But you can't tell me you've never been in this position before."

Aedan shrugged. "I haven't. Since Fergus was already married and had a child my parents didn't see the need to rush me into an arranged marriage. They did try, once."

"What did you do the the girl?" Nathaniel assumed the fault was entirely Aedan's. He was right to do so.

"If she ever starts speaking to me again I'll let you know."

There was a bit of an awkward silence after that. Finally Aedan decided to put things into perspective. "Okay, the marriage issue is troubling, but I have other things to contend with first. Like the Champion's banquet."

Nathaniel turned thoughtful. "You know, there will be a lot of nobles there. At the banquet, I mean. It'd be a good place to look for your bride. Though, stay away from the Kirkwall nobles—they tend to be crazy. And the Orleasian ladies are...Orleasian. That just leaves Ferelden nobles, really."

"It's probably better that way," Aedan admitted. He started cleaning up his desk and then promptly gave up on it. "Oh, Nathaniel, one more thing... You'll be taking over as Commander while I'm gone. I thought that'd be obvious, but just in case in needs to be said there it is."

The archer wasn't so certain. "Are you sure about that?"

"I don't even know how you could ask me that. You're the only one here suited for command. Just do what I would do."

"As you say."

Aedan groaned. "I was kidding. Do as _you_ would do. Anyway, I need to think of a suitable gift to present the Champion. I'm not bringing her a sword or a shield. Everyone will be doing that cliché. This sword was forged in the fires of a volcano by who even _cares_?"

"The Champion is a mage, is she not? Then why don't you consult a mage?"

"That's a start," Aedan agreed with a sigh. "How many mages do we have?"

Nathaniel snorted. "Not many. The Templars don't let us in the Circle anymore. Mostly because of you."

"Maker, conscript _one_ murdering mage and you never hear the end of it." Aedan sank in his chair so far it took him awhile to get up. Perhaps he _should_ have toned down the drills a tad. "Fine. Do you know where..." It took him a minute. "Sienna! That's it. D'you know where she would be?"

"This is just a guess, but probably still running up those stairs."

"Why would she be..." He remembered and promptly jumped up. "Damn. Poor sods. I'd best go collect them."

Nathaniel agreed with him completely. "Just follow the sounds of vomiting, Commander."

* * *

Hawke entered The Hanged Man to a lovely chorus of retching noises. She stepped lightly over the undigested mess, and the man who made it, and headed up to Varric's private suite. She caught a few curious stares, but that was only because her hood hid her face. _Cover up your face and suddenly everyone wants to know who you are_ , she thought, pausing before Varric's doorway. She could hear Isabela's gaudy laughter and couldn't help but grin. Her lip split open again from the effort.

Without a word, Hawke walked into Varric's room and yanked the hood off of her face. Isabela saw her first, glancing behind her as she took a long drink. She shrieked and nearly choked on her ale. " _Hawke_? Is that _you_? Why are you dripping blood?"

Anders and Varric snapped to attention at that. Anders almost turned over his chair in his hurry to get to her. "What happened? Are you hurt? Let me-"

Hawke grabbed Anders's arm and shoved his hand away before his healing magic could touch her. "Anders, my dog. Please, go to my estate and help him. He's been poisoned."

Laying down his cards and revealing a rather poor hand, Varric told her, "Hawke, I've seen Legion corpses that looked better than you do now. You need to tell us what's going on."

"What's going on is that I'll kick Anders's ass if he lets my dog die." Hawke used Anders's arm to throw him towards the door. "Go. I'm fine. This blood is mostly someone else's."

Anders looked as though he wanted to argue, but Hawke's blood smeared glare was enough to get him moving. Sighing in relief, Hawke sat down next to Isabela, who was still staring at her. "Uh," Hawke asked Varric sheepishly, "Can I get a bowl of water? And a few towels? I didn't have time to..." Suddenly she sat up straight and glanced about in a panic. "Fenris isn't here, is he?"

"Lanky, you mean? No, he isn't here. Such a shame that." Isabela chuckled, taking out one of her handkerchiefs. She dampened a corner with her mouth and tried to clean up Hawke's face. "Hawke, this is going to take a bit more elbow grease than I thought. And maybe some soap."

"I'll have someone bring soap and water," Varric offered. He added, slyly, "But only if I get the story."

"Why would I expect anything else?" Hawke laughed, which was an eerie sight at the moment. "And I'll gladly tell you what went down, but I'd appreciate it Varric if you wouldn't exaggerate this one. We don't need Kirkwall freaking out more than they need to."

Varric smirked. "You mean you don't need the _elf_ freaking out more than-"

"Do you want the tale or not?" Hawke demanded. The barmaid arrived with a pail of water that soon turned pink after Hawke plunged her hands into it. "We're going to need another one of these," she muttered.

It wasn't until Hawke had cleaned herself completely of all blood and muck that she revealed to Varric and Isabela what had happened. They both were interested in very different aspects.

"He nearly blew you up and you still defeated him? _I_ can't even make that sound plausible."

Isabela cut in swiftly, "You fought him _naked_?"

" _Almost_ naked," Hawke corrected her. "There's a slight difference." She shakily got to her feet and brushed herself off. "Now, I need to get back to check on my dog. Who wants to carry me back home?"

" _Literally_?"

There were no takers. Isabela and Varric both offered to escort her back to the estate, though. Hawke accepted the company gladly. She was in a hurry to see if Rebel was all right. It was really difficult to imagine him _not_ being fine. The Maker had taken enough from her. He could leave her dog be.

* * *

Moira sat at the base of the Point, barking every so often to remind Arnaud and Sienna to keep running. Sometimes it frightened Aedan when his dog attempted to steal his job. He jogged up to her and relieved her of her self-appointed duty. "Leave them be, girl. The cook's got a..."

Before Aedan could finish his sentence Moira was off, tearing her way to the kitchens at the slightest mention of a meal. If Anders was still with them the mage would have made some comment about Aedan being the same way. Oh, why hadn't he taken his bloody _cat_ with him? Commanding an entire keep was difficult enough without having a small and rather useless feline to contend with.

Aedan waited for Arnaud and Sienna to make it back down to the bottom before he ordered them to stop. They tried to salute and double over in pain at the same time, which was a sad sight. "At ease, Wardens," Aedan told them quickly. He didn't need them passing out before he got the chance to ask Sienna his question.

"What did you need, Commander?" Cartier was the first to recover.

"I'm here for Warden Sienna, actually," Aedan admitted and turned to the mage. "I find myself in need of a mage's expertise. I need to present the Champion of Kirkwall with a gift. What would you say would be appropriate?"

Aedan was confused by the triumphant look she shot Cartier. "Women love jewelry, Commander."

He didn't like that. "I'm getting a gift for a _Champion_ , Warden. I want to get her something _useful_ , as well as eloquent. Do you have any thoughts on that or am I wasting my time?"

"No, Commander. I'll think of something. Do we have an Enchanter on hand?"

"Of course. She's not as good as a dwarf I once knew was, but she'll do." Aedan looked down at Sienna curiously. " _What_ are we enchanting?"

She told him and he nodded approvingly. She warned him, "It may take some time to procure such an object, but it'll be done."

He took that into account. "Fine. Take a horse and do what you must." He dropped a fat coin purse into her hands. "That should take care of whatever you need. Meet us in Amaranthine before we take ship. The rest of us are leaving tomorrow at dawn."

"Yes, Commander."

Aedan made to leave and then turned back. "Warden Cartier, are you any good with horses?"

"Are you asking because I'm Orleasian?" Sienna kicked Cartier hard when he said that.

"I'm asking because you were a Chevalier. That is also Orleasian. I thought you were all raised on horseback."

"Not _all_ of us, but I was."

"Then I want you to come with. I'm taking a few of my household guard, and as competent as they are, they are no horsemen. And," he confessed sullenly, "Neither am I."

Cartier had no objections. "As you command."

"I do." Aedan nodded at them both and hoped he hadn't just made a horrible decision. He was ready to reenter the Keep and see about getting dessert when he heard shouting and fighting coming from the Keep's entrance. He grumbled and motioned to Cartier and Sienna both. "With me."

The Warden's guarding the door were trying their damnedest to keep a woman out without seriously hurting her. Each time they shoved her away she threw herself at them again. Aedan went in to rectify the situation. "Mistress! What in the name of the Maker are you doing?" He had hoped that throwing the name of the Maker in there would catch her attention. She looked like the crazy religious sort.

She whirled on him, pulling up her skirts out of the mud. "You! You took my daughter!"

Aedan squinted at her, but nothing jogged his memory. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're screaming about, Mistress. You'll have to give me a name." And that might not even help.

The woman was looking behind him. She pointed. "Her! That's my girl! I sent her to the Circle. They _promised_ me she'd be safe! And you took her away! To _rot_ in the Deep Roads!"

"Ah." Aedan stared back at Sienna, waiting for an answer. He had never seen the mage's eyes so lifeless and cold. She stepped up beside him.

"I was young when I was taken in by the Templars. I do not know this woman and do not care to. That is the truth, Commander." She finished rather cruelly, "She is no mother of mine."

"Should I have her escorted home?" Aedan had little experience in this. Anders had never quite forgiven his parents for letting him go so easily. The blood mage Jowan whom Aedan had met in Redcliffe had mentioned that his parents had thought he was an abomination and a sinful thing. If Sienna wished this woman thrown out he would not blame her.

"It is your decision, Commander. I wish to be kept out of it." She said something to Cartier in a whisper as she walked away, and he followed her, complaining, "Maker, I hope you don't want to talk about this."

Nodding to her as Sienna passed by, Aedan ordered the woman to be gently taken to the nearest village and then set loose. She shouted things at him while she was dragged away, curses that _he_ hadn't even heard before. It was an education, at least. And, what was worse, she was not wrong.

What did he give these men and women besides nightmares and an early death? Becoming a Warden had not been a choice for him. It had been an ultimatum. Join or die. It was a choice he had hated at the time and had not understood. And now what did he do? He found the desperate and abandoned and offered them that same choice, knowing that they could do nothing but accept. He stayed with the new recruits for days after they preformed the joining ritual, sitting by their bedside as they thrashed and pierced his heart with their silent screams. Going through the pain himself was one thing; it was hard to stand watching another go through it themselves.

In the end he could offer them little comfort. He woke them up and explained to them what they were seeing and that they'd be seeing it again. And again. And soon they'd be able to sleep through it and maybe even wake up one day without wishing they hadn't.

He had no skill at speeches, but he gave them his words nonetheless. There would never be a day when he felt that was enough.

* * *

"Stop! _Stop_. That's enough, boy!" Hawke tried to push Rebel off her but it was hopeless. She had to wait until Anders took pity on her and pulled her dog off her. Hawke laid back on her bed, breathing hard. "Thank you, Anders. My lungs and ribs appreciate it."

"Your dog is fine. Now can I heal you?" Anders didn't even wait to hear her answer. The room filled with his light blue healing magic until he was satisfied that she had gone from mostly dead to just moderately wounded. "There? Feel better?"

"I would if you weren't killing yourself trying to heal me." Hawke craned her neck so she could look at him in the eyes. "Why don't you stay here tonight? So you don't have to crawl all the way to Darktown," she added quickly, as if she needed a reason. A reason other than she didn't think she'd survive being blown up again.

Anders gave her that tired smile that was so like her father's. "Okay. I'll just be downstairs."

"I'll obviously be here," she returned. She waved to him, knowing there would be no sleep tonight. Not while she was so _angry_.

She would not be so defenseless, so reliant on those she loved again.


	4. Discomfort

 

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

  
**Chapter 4:** Discomfort

 

Aedan was miserable—beyond miserable. The ride to Amaranthine had been easy enough. Warden Cartier had lived up to the Orleasian stereotype. He had a way with horses that no Ferelden could match. And Aedan had to admit (though he did so begrudgingly) that riding beat walking. Even if it caused him to walk bowlegged for a good ten minutes after dismounting.

No, his misery was not a result of saddle sores. It was the damn _ship_.

Once Sienna had caught up to them in Amaranthine, with the Champion's boon, Aedan had bribed the ship's captain to set sail ahead of schedule. It had taken a good deal of sovereigns and Aedan had hinted that he could sense darkspawn about. It was complete bull, but who was going to argue with the Hero of Ferelden? The captain had believed him and, not wanting to take any chances, they had set off.

Aedan soon discovered that sailing was not his thing. The ship was dirty, smelly, and above all else—wet. He hadn't been dry since they left Amaranthine and, embarrassingly, he was starting to chaff in certain places.

 _Isabela is a lying cheat_ , he thought bitterly. When he had first met the pirate at the Pearl she had made sailing seem like the best thing in the world. She had even ranked it above sex.

He liked sex better.

Finally deciding that sulking in the hold was not going to improve his mood, Aedan headed up to the main deck. He threw open the hatch with a grunt and instantly regretted the decision.

“What the bloody fuck?” He lost control of his tongue as he covered his eyes from the brilliant light shining upon his face. He could already feel his cheeks beginning to burn. “Is that the _sun_? _Again_?”

Cartier had been spending the majority of the trip outside with the sailors. But he had the advantage of Rivaini blood—he was used to such exposure from his father and son trips to the island of Rivaine. He was in no danger of burning.

The Orleasian stopped looking up at the Crow's Nest to say sarcastically, “Yes, that's the sun. It comes up everyday in case nobody told you.”

Aedan squinted about angrily. “Not in Ferelden, it doesn't.” He wished for his country's ever present dark clouds or its tall trees...anything to block out that infernal star. Cartier's yelling startled him, breaking him out of his sun-induced daze.

“Put your clothes back on! Dammit, this is the last time I'm warning you!”

 _What now?_ Aedan walked over to Cartier and asked reluctantly, “Who are you screaming at?” Curse it all, he was already sweating through his shirt. He had long abandoned his hot, heavy armour for a light sleeveless shirt and a simple pair of trousers. Maker, he didn't think he had ever been so _hot_. And _he_ had nearly been roasted alive by dragons before.

Cartier started to answer. “That mage. She's running around in her skivvies.” He pointed up the the Crow's Nest and Aedan followed his line of sight curiously. Sure enough, Sienna was up there, sunbathing from the look of it.

Aedan shrugged, indifferent. “That's her choice.”

“I understand that, but you Fereldens—no offense—live where the sun only comes out twelve times a year. She'll burn to a crisp if she doesn't cover up.”

Aedan crinkled his nose and chose not to ask why he thought calling them Fereldens was offensive. The skin around the bridge of his nose and on his cheekbones was beginning to itch. “Cartier, this Kirkwall...it's not known for its warm weather, is it?”

“I'm afraid it is, Commander.”

“Ah. Damn.”

* * *

 

 _There aren't enough curse words in the common tongue_ , Hawke decided without remorse. She knew she looked ridiculous, hanging helplessly from the iron bar she had attached to her doorway. She had been attempting to do a pull-up, hoping Anders's healing job had brought her back to normal. Considering the most she'd been able to do since she grabbed onto the bar was kick her feet, she was going to assume that she still had a way to go. Anders was at least polite enough not to laugh. He helped her back down. “Hawke, are you sure you could do a pull-up _before_ your duel with the Arishok?” 

“I don't _know_ , Anders. It wasn't like I had a _reason_ to be doing pull-ups left and right. Don't be silly.” Hawke moaned after she had made it to the ground. The drop down had jarred her ribs. 

“Well,” Anders said, inspecting her for the third time that evening. “You'll be ready for your banquet next week. That's good news.”

Hawke's eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Yes. Great. I'll get to spend an evening with _nobles_. Won't Carver be jealous?”

Anders gave her a disappointed look. “Hey! I've met some nobles that weren't complete asses, I'll have you know.” Suddenly Anders reached out and touched her cheek, his fingertips resting on her still lightly bruised face. “Do you want me to take care of this?”

Hawke ducked under his outstretched hand. “Time will take care of it, Anders.” She moved as quickly past him as her ribs would allow. “Luckily for me my face isn't my best asset.”

She was begging the question. Anders called after her, “Then what is?”

“My ass, obviously.” She didn't hear any argument from Anders.

* * *

 

Varric's nightly card game at the Hanged Man had been unexpectedly canceled. What was even more unexpected was that Varric had sent out a messenger to Fenris's mansion to inform him of such. It mattered little to Fenris. Hawke hadn't shown up the past five nights and while it was still an enjoyable evening, there was no one there to play referee.

It was looking like tonight would be another night spent alone inside and he spent too many nights already in that fashion. Fenris reached for the wine bottle on his bare dining table and it occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Groceries were needed, badly. He didn't feel like going out, though he knew his stomach was eventually going to win that argument. He was hungry—not starving, he _knew_ starving, but he needed to take care of it nonetheless. 

It was still light outside so the streets of Hightown were filled with lesser nobles hurrying to get home. They saw him and the hushed whispers started. He had learned long ago to ignore them, but when the name Hawke escaped their lips he startled and started to eavesdrop.

Two noble women were huddled together, their lazy bodyguard trailing behind them. One, a brunette who spoke too loudly, said to her companion, “Yes, I heard the explosion. Right in the middle of the night. I thought it was just the Champion doing some mage thing, but then I heard from the Comtessa--”

“Oh! How is the Comtessa doing?”

Fenris growled. Eavesdropping was only useful when people had something of interest to say. And if they stayed on topic.

The brunette didn't look pleased to be interrupted. She snapped, “She's fine,” and continued. “Anyway, she told me that an _assassin_ nearly _blew up_ the Champion. Can you imagine? She's Champion for how long and people are already trying to kill her! My family hasn't had an assassination attempt in years! Aren't _we_ still a threat?”

If Fenris thought anymore about the fact that this woman was jealous that Hawke was a assassin's target and she was not, he'd do something to land him in one of Aveline's jail cells. Instead he stalked silently and quickly to Hawke's estate, his head pounding from too much wine and his heart pounding from too much worry.

His pause before Hawke's doorway was only slight; memories of a night long past still pricked at him and he had to push those thoughts away. Fenris gave the door a good shove, making it inside without changing his mind. Bodahn was there, straightening up when he saw Hawke had a visitor.

“Serah Hawke is--”

He saw her. Standing at the top of her partially destroyed staircase and laughing at something Anders had said. Or that she had said. She _did_ laugh at her own jokes.

Bodahn quickly found somewhere else to be, dragging Sandal along with him. Fenris waited, silently staring up at her until she noticed.

* * *

 

Not telling Fenris about the assassination attempt had seemed a good idea before. It wasn't like she could go over to his mansion, step over the still present dead bodies and say, _hey, someone tried to kill me the other day. You know, a professional assassin. Just thought you ought to know._ It'd be...an odd way to go about things. But now he was angry that he hadn't known. She could let him be angry, act the regretful child as she usually did and take her scolding. Or...

Hawke stormed down her stairs, stopping right in the middle. She pointed viciously at her broken railing. “Look at this! Some asshole broke into my house a few nights ago and brought a Maker damned _bomb_ with him.” Her line of thinking was, if she acted madder than he was, he'd get confused and back off. It was most likely idiotic, but it was all she had. “And that was _before_ he tried to kill me!”

Fenris wasn't thrown off by her “clever” tactics. “How many?” His voice was low, but its timber carried throughout the empty house.

She blinked and fought the urge to say that there had been fifty of them which would explain why she was so thoroughly beaten. The truth came out regardless, just from Anders. “There was _one_. He's dead. Rebel protected Hawke quite valiantly.”

Hawke was shocked; that easily was the nicest thing Anders had ever said about her dog. “He's a good boy,” she agreed and as if summoned Rebel came bounding to her side. She patted his head and found it was quite sticky. Her smile waned. He had been at the jam again.

“Hmph.” Fenris eyed them both, scowling before he turned on one of his bare heels and stalked out. Hawke went after him, nearly slipping on a bit of debris and having to catch herself without the railing there to provide support.

“Hold on,” she pleaded, breathless. “It was just one guy. An Orleasian, I think.” Fenris didn't halt so she kept on stumbling after him and talking. “He called my dog a “courser”. That's an Orleasian thing, right?”

“You didn't tell me.” His tone was slightly accusatory, but at least he was turned around now. Facing her.

Hawke bit her lip, testing the bruised part for sensitivity. “I didn't tell _a lot_ of people. Anders, because I needed healing. Aveline, because she's the Captain of the guard. And you try keeping anything remotely interesting from Varric and Isabela. Those two know when I buy a new pair of _socks_ , for Andraste's sake!” She spread out her hands and shrugged. “I wasn't _keeping_ it from you. It was done with. There was no need.” Then she waited. She knew why he came. He was worried. But he wouldn't say so. She knew that, too.

“You should post guards outside your estate, Hawke.”

Change came slowly in Kirkwall. Sometimes it didn't come at all.

“Yes. I should.”

* * *

 

While Aedan was uncomfortable, Moira was having a blast. Yes, Aedan had brought her along as well. The Captain, a Free Marcher, had asked Aedan if it was a good idea to bring her on board. He had explained to the Captain that Fereldens didn't go anywhere without their mabari. Not to war, the privy, or even the grave. Moira was there to stay, but if the Captain thought he could separate them from one another he was more than welcome to try. Maker, his people skills were damned rusty.

In total Aedan's party consisted of six of Highever's guards, straight from Cousland castle. These men and women were the best Fergus had had to offer...or the most _available_ , but that was not how Aedan was going to introduce them at the Champion's banquet. He also had two Wardens with him, mostly for show. Warden Cartier and Sienna seemed the most mild mannered of Vigil's Keep's company, Aedan included. That was a positive thing. And Aedan didn't know them that well so he didn't feel obligated to chat with them. Instead Aedan kept to the hold and kept a log in his journal. He had two journals, actually. One was his day-to-day one, that honestly he neglected terribly. The other was much more well used. It was his Commander's log: each Warden-Commander was made to keep one. It was meant to record meetings with darkspawn and information about the Deep Roads. Aedan used it for that _and_ to record any new skills or fighting techniques he picked up. He also included drawings. As a child he had been taught cartography, for war purposes, and he was still skilled and steady with ink.

He had a third journal with him, one that was much older and belonged to another commander that had long since passed on. He was only a quarter of a way through it, but it supposedly held an account of the discovery of an awakened darkspawn. Having dealt with them himself, Aedan was a bit curious.

After a few minutes of trying to read the tiny, cramped writing in the dark, he gave up and headed up top to rejoin his companions. His men were attempting to teach the sailors the lyrics to _The Burden of the Warden,_ a bawdy song the Wardens usually sang whenever the mead was being passed out a little too freely.

Aedan refrained from singing along. He had a voice suited for command. It was too loud, too rough for song, but it carried over the sounds of battle and _that_ was what was important.

The song stopped abruptly, leaving most of the men in laughter and one in a rage. Aedan smirked when he saw the angry man vigorously scrubbing his shirt clean of bird droppings.

He didn't need to be a sailor to know what that meant.

Bird _shit_ meant _birds_.

 _Birds_ meant _land_ was near.

He hoped Kirkwall was ready for them.


	5. Ladies-In-Waiting

 

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

 

**Dragon Age 2**

 

**Chapter 5: Ladies-In-Waiting**

 

 

 

Hawke turned the fine material over in her hands before she realized what was bothering her about the dress.

 

"The neckline is... _low_ ," she remarked stiffly, holding up the dress against her torso. Isabela didn't see the issue.

 

"But, sweet thing, that's the _best_ _part_." She took the dress from Hawke's death grip and showed it to Merrill and Orana. Aveline had long since left them after she had delivered the too fine, too expensive, and too _revealing_ package. _A wise move,_ Hawke thought bitterly. Too long had the four of them been 'ohhing' and 'ahhing' over Duke Prosper's extravagant gift. Whoever Duke Prosper was, he was a _rich_ one. He had sent the dress to Hawke's estate through the guard, but for what reason she did not know. Yet.

 

If this was simply because he had a unmarried son...

 

Oh, Maker. It _could_ be worse, she realized. _Duke Prosper_ could be the unmarried one.

 

Hawke stopped her imagination right there; it was heading nowhere good fast. She jumped back into the conversation instead. "It's the wrong color," she pointed out flatly. "It's _blue_. Red's my color, everyone knows that."

 

"It's such a pretty blue, though," Isabela cooed and laid it out on Hawke's bed for all to see. She nudged Orana gently. "Don't you think so?"

 

The dress was honestly not _just_ a pretty blue. It was bloody _gorgeous_. The blue was so deep it was nearly purple and it was vibrant in a way Hawke had never seen before. Not even on other nobles. It had to be bewitched. Such pure, eye catching color wasn't possible with simple dye.

 

Merrill seemed afraid to touch it. Her slender fingers reached out, just inches away from the cloth and there they would stay, not moving. As if she would ruin the fabric with a single prod.

 

Stepping silently behind her, Hawke whispered, "Boo."

 

As Hawke had expected, Merrill jumped and flew back into her. As the two stumbled backwards, Merrill asked repeatedly, " _Boo_? What does that mean?"

 

"Ghosts say it, kitten," Isabela explained, wiggling her fingers eerily.

 

Merrill was unconvinced. "I have never heard a spirit say "boo". Ever."

 

Hawke shrugged. "You're the expert, Merrill." Hawke watched as Orana carefully folded the dress up and placed it delicately back into its box. "I wasn't even planning on wearing a dress. I'm a Champion, not a lady-in-waiting."

 

"If you don't wear the gift, Mistress, you'll risk offending His Grace," Orana explained quietly. If Leandra was still there she would have known that. _She_ could have instructed Hawke and got her through this banquet. But she was gone. Orana quickly stepped into her place.

 

* * *

 

Aedan glanced at the templar's eyes through his helmets eye slits. It was hard to tell if this templar was serious with his face covered like that. It was too damn hot outside to be wearing a metal helmet like that without reason. And since mages didn't even wear armour, there really _wasn't_ a reason for it.

 

This particular templar had stepped into his way the second he and his subordinates had walked onto Kirkwall's dock. Aedan set his jaw. He had been expecting something like this. He _had_ brought a currently very sunburnt mage with him.

 

Aedan raised a hand in greeting, very aware that he and the rest of his group were still dressed like raiders. "Hold, templar. We're Wardens and this mage is one of us. You have no authority here."

 

"Is that so?" The templar's voice was muffled, though still quite snobbish. If Aedan had to guess this templar was probably the youngest son of some lesser noble and thought himself above them. If he only knew... There was no chance that he'd recognize Aedan as the Hero of Ferelden, though. He hadn't bothered with shaving the entire trip and now resembled some barbaric hillsman.

 

Aedan made to move on, but the templar refused to budge. "There isn't a Warden post in Kirkwall. How do I know you're telling the truth?"

 

Maker, _this_ again. "I am the Warden-Commander of Amarathine. And you're in my way."

 

"Perhaps I should take you to Meredith to be safe."

 

Who was this _Meredith_? The new Viscountess? But why would she be working through templars? She had to be a Knight-Captain or Knight-Commander then. Aedan thought this over and glanced back at Warden Sienna who was vigorously scratching her sunburn. She looked like she had been roasted on a spit.

 

Warden Cartier stepped in for support. "You have no right," he told the templar. "Chantry law says-"

 

"I know what it _says_." The templar still did not move. Aedan inwardly brightened; a little confrontation was just the way he liked to start his day. He straightened out to his full height and walked into the templar, forcing him to unwillingly back up a few feet.

 

"The Arch-demon was in my way, once," was all he said. It wasn't a threat; it was a simple fact. But if the templar interpreted it as a threat, well, that couldn't be helped.

 

His statement didn't go over well. "You're not going to kill me."

 

"No, I wouldn't. _I'll conscript you_." That threat went over much, _much_ better. Most people were more than willing to try him in battle, but would they face a darkspawn so willingly? Maker, no. The idea of being conscripted into the Wardens was worse than death to some.

 

While the templar was stomping back to his commander, Sienna remarked casually, "What's _with_ the templars in this town? They're all over the damn place. Like cockroaches."

 

Aedan had to agree with her. In Ferelden the templars kept to their Circle on Lake Calenhad and away from the bulk of the populace. In Kirkwall, evidently, they had free reign. "Agreed," he told the mage. "Let's not do anything to draw their attention, then."

 

Warden Cartier nodded. "What I want to know is _how_ did the Champion hide from them for so long?"

 

"Well, they made her Champion for a reason." Aedan searched the docks. There was supposed to be someone there to meet them, but everyone on the docks looked busy with their own lives.

 

Except for a girl dressed in ridiculously ornate armor. She had been watching their ship the minute they had arrived. She was waiting for someone, he guessed. And from her angry stance he also guessed that she was very tired of waiting for them.

 

Aedan approached her quickly and asked her, dreading the reply, "My lady, you wouldn't happen to be waiting for the Warden-Commander, would you?"

 

She barely gave him a glance. "Yes," she replied grimly, keeping her grip tight on the mace at her side. "I'm his new squire."

 

"Ah."

 

* * *

 

Hawke tugged hopelessly at Duke Prosper's dress, trying to protect what little modesty she had left. "The _neckline_ , though. What if I get into a fight? One tug and _bam_ , there go the girls."

 

Varric chuckled at that. He was dressed up as well, wearing a new dark red coat that she was madly jealous of. "As amusing of a story as that has the potential to be, there is _zero_ chance of you getting into a brawl, Hawke. And there's zero chance of you flashing the nobles."

 

"Then what's the point in even _going_?" she demanded in mock seriousness.

 

Isabela cackled devilishly while Merrill giggled behind her hands. Most of Hawke's group was there at her mansion, practicing their dinner etiquette at the behest of Seneschal Bran. And surprisingly they were all present, save for Fenris, of course, but no one was really surprised at that. He had plenty of experience at these sorts of things, stuffy banquets with important people. But, unlike Sebastian, Fenris's banquet experiences hadn't been...pleasant. Hawke hadn't expected him to attend, though it would have helped her focus. Instead of remembering which fork was to be used with which dish, she was wondering where he was. Brooding in his basement, most likely.

 

"Hawke, that's...wrong. Again." Sebastian gently took her spoon from her hand and laid it back on the table. The Seneschal, once he learned how little Hawke knew about proper banquet etiquette, had locked himself in Leandra's old room and refused to come out until Hawke stopped chewing with her mouth open. Aveline and Sebastian had mostly taken over from there. And after Varric proceeded to whisper tidbits of _dwarven_ etiquette in Hawke's ear and completely erase all Aveline had managed to teach her, the Guardswoman had thrown her hands up and left. Now only Sebastian remained, desperately trying to educate Hawke and avoid staring at Isabela who was lying across the table, muttering about hats. Hawke glared at the brother's perfect and zealous blue eyes. Sebastian just smiled gently back at her and nodded towards the spoons again. He was being so damned patient with her and it was driving her mad.

 

"I. Was. A. Bloody. _Peasant_!" She slammed her palm on the table and sent a few utensils flying. " _We only had one spoon each!_ " She stood up, and stormed out of the room. Seconds later she returned, seething. "Just realized I have nowhere to go since you're all in _my_ damn house."

 

Merrill gestured for her to sit down again. "I think I've figured it out, Hawke. It's this one." The tiny elf raised a spoon high in triumph.

 

Varric shook his head. "Wrong, Daisy."

 

"Oh." Merrill's fine brows furrowed. "Shit."

 

Hawke moved Isabela's legs away from her chair. "It's mostly _Orleasians_ coming to this, right? I don't think they'd be surprised if I just speared everything with my knife. I am _Ferelden_ , after all. They'd be expecting it."

 

Isabela suddenly sat up and laughed. "Hawke, if you ever want the Seneschal to leave you'll have to stop talking like that." She hopped off the table. "It's the middle fork. Maker, you're memory is _bad_. No wonder you're shit at cards." The rogue sauntered over to Hawke's mother's room to get Bran out.

 

"I'm not nearly as bad as Anders!" Hawke glanced over at Anders who was asleep in his chair. Justice kept him up nights, having no care for his human needs. It made Hawke angry, but as Anders had pointed out before, it wasn't her place to question it. He stayed unconscious, even after Hawke threw a few bread rolls at him. The Seneschal caught her in the act as he was walking out and tried to retreat inside again.

 

"No." Isabela shoved him back towards the table. "Hawke is the closest thing to a Viscounte that you've got. Now, attend to her."

 

Seneschal Bran gathered what was left of his dignity and slowly stepped over to her, his back straight and proud. "Champion?"

 

Hawke looked him straight in the eye and asked, "What do I do if I have to take a piss?"

 

* * *

 

He hadn't argued when the girl had claimed to be his new squire. Aedan simply followed her to her father's small estate on the outskirts of Kirkwall. Her family was part of the minor nobility and was in the business of mining. And that was all Aedan knew about them. He might have asked a little more about their background but he soon learned that he wasn't staying with them. Just his brother's guards were. Aedan and his two Wardens (and evidently his new squire) were going to be someone _else's_ honored guests.

 

Aedan sighed and asked Petyr Mortaine (that was his squire's father's name) who the Comte de Launcet was. Aedan didn't get a useful answer, other than the fact the Comte and Comtessa were very, _very_ Orleasian. And they were thrilled (or at least the Comtessa was) to have the Hero of Ferelden under their own roof. His next question was more serious. "Ser Mortaine, why is your daughter squiring for _me_ and not any other knight? I've never had a true squire and I'm afraid I don't want to change that." For a noble's daughter there should have been plenty of knights available to take her on as their squire. If not in Kirkwall, then in Ferelden or Orlais.

 

Petyr grew very still. "Edith's father is Antivan."

 

"So?"

 

"I'm not Antivan."

 

Ah. The girl was a bastard child, then. She would be considered an insult to most "true" knights. But she did have one thing going for her. She had a step-father that didn't hold her mother's wayward sleeping habits against her. Even with this knowledge, Aedan still didn't want her squiring for him. He was going to argue against it further, but Edith herself decided to join in the conversation. She was short for her age, but still stocky. And she was _strong_ if the mace at her hip was any indicator. "Milord," she said quietly. Her speech was unrefined. "If I don't find a knight that will take me on, it's either marriage or the templars for me." Her too wide mouth thinned miserably. "I don't want to join the Chantry and my mother would rather I work in the mines than put her through what it would take to get me married. But if _you_ were my sponsor, milord, they'd _have_ to knight a bastard. I heard you got one crowned back in Ferelden."

 

Oh, shit. What was the Maker thinking when He "gifted" him with a soft spot for misfits? Aedan reluctantly stomped over to the girl. "Squire Edith, I fight _darkspawn_."

 

"I know this, milord."

 

"I'm no chivalrous knight. I'm a Grey Warden."

 

"Noted, milord."

 

"I'm going to treat you as if you were one of my recruits. If you fail to meet my expectations, I'll feed you to a hurlock."

 

Warden Sienna was perturbed. " _What_?"

 

Aedan ignored her and nodded. "Fine, _Squire_." He slid his pack from his shoulders and thrust it at her. "You will lead us to the Comte and Comtessa. But before we leave..." He pointed first to himself and then to his two wardens. "We all need baths and I need a shave. Arrange that." While she stumbled off with the added weight of his pack, Aedan addressed the rest of his men who would be staying at Mortaine's home. "You lot will be staying here and helping guard Mortaine's mines until I have other orders for you." Mine guarding wasn't how the men and women of Highever had wanted to spend their time, but Aedan didn't hear any arguments from them.

 

When his new squire returned (Maker, he really, really didn't want one. It was practically the male equivalent of having a lady-in-waiting.) Edith announced that his bath would be ready as soon as the servants finished heating up the water.

 

"That's acceptable, Squire Edith," he told her, biting his tongue. He hated playing the part of the never pleased noble, but he reminded himself that Alistair had sent him here as a noble and not as a warden. He stopped the girl before she vanished again to retrieve a shaving kit for him. "In your personal opinion, how would you describe the Comte and Comtessa?"

 

"Orleasian."

 

He looked down, then up, and at last he simply grimaced. "That's what I heard."

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure about this, Mistress?" Orana asked her for the second time. The elf lifted up a few strands of Hawke's hair and let it fall over her shoulder. "Your hair has grown so lovely and thick-"

 

"Chop it off. Now." Hawke pulled out one of her boot knives from its hiding place. "If you don't, I will," she reminded Orana gently. Orana quickly resumed her work, brushing out her hair and getting any tangles out before she cut it.

 

As locks of her hair began to fall around her and onto her back, Hawke tried to make conversation. Orana just clicked her tongue in concentration when she felt she had to respond. The Seneschal and her companions had left long ago. Bran _might_ have been crying when he left, Hawke wasn't sure. She didn't blame him if he was. Her manners at the dinner table were atrocious. While her family was in Lothering her mother had attempted to teach them to eat properly, but to Hawke it didn't matter how nicely one ate when their dinner was half a slice of bread. How Carver had managed to get so damn big was a mystery to her still today.

 

_"How much?"_

 

_"For your hair? It's dark. The ladies prefer blonde for their wigs."_

 

_"But it's clean! And thick! And there's nearly two feet of it."_

 

_A deafening and maddening pause. "I suppose I could make a wig out of that. Sit down and I'll cut it. If you're sure about this...?"_

 

_"My brother needs new boots."_

 

Hawke blinked. She had nearly fallen asleep and Orana had let her. "Is it done?"

 

Orana brushed a few stray hairs off of her apron. "Yes, Mistress. It's done."

 

* * *

 

Eamon had informed him in his final instructions that he had arranged for Aedan and his men to stay in the city. And Aedan understood why more than half his men were staying with Petyr Mortaine. They were needed at the mines and probably were making some money for the crown as they did their duty. _That_ made sense. But why would Eamon send him to stay with Orleasians? He thought at first it was because Isolde knew the Comtessa, but later he learned otherwise.

 

The Comtessa had _daughters_. Awful, snobby, and _unmarried_ daughters that gossiped and wore odd shades of make-up and were cruel to the servants. Their mother was lovely, though. Kind and gentle, though still very Orleasian. The Comte mostly stayed out of everyone's way, rubbing his temples and searching for something to cure his headaches.

 

While his wardens, Cartier and Sienna, were excused immediately after dinner so that they could rest from the journey, Aedan was stuck answering mundane questions about the Blight and Ferelden. He tried to be nice and to keep the gory details out of his answers, but a few snide remarks from Dulce de Launcet quickly soured his attitude.

 

"I stabbed the Arch-demon until I reached its brain. Then I moved the blade around a bit so everything got mixed together and-"

 

The Comtessa and her daughters shrieked and together they left for their rooms, in fear that they would soon swoon. Aedan couldn't care less. They had left the Comte and himself alone in the study, for which the Comte leaned over to the Warden and whispered, " _Thank you._ "

 

Aedan was a terrible house guest. He was sneaking out. Getting past the Comte's guards was easy. It was his damn squire that was giving him all the trouble. She was useful, yes, especially as a guide. But she wouldn't let him breathe. All throughout dinner with the de Launcets she had stuck to him like a leech. Edith wouldn't let him out of her sight and while to another it might have been endearing, to him it was downright annoying. He was perfectly capable of managing on his own; he had done it for years.

 

Kirkwall's nights were cool, cool enough so that Aedan was able to wear one of his cloaks around outside. He didn't want to be recognized during his midnight walk, not by Edith or by anyone. Kirkwall's nightlife was still lively, even though half the city was still under reconstruction. Since he still didn't know the city's layout yet, Aedan headed for the only place he had seen. The docks. When he neared the place he could smell frying fish and hear the tempting "pop" of fresh grease. True to character, Aedan headed for the food first. The Comtessa had somehow gotten the idea that he preferred vegetables over meat (evidently that was an actual thing—he had no idea) and had served him no meat. He wouldn't have been surprised if Eamon had been behind the rumor.

 

Instinctively he followed the smell of frying fish and ordered a plate from the women behind the delectable smell. He finished off the fish quickly, cleaning his fingers clean of grease with his handkerchief. He would have licked them clean but that might have been undignified.

 

As he was enjoying his second helping, he heard a rough, irritated voice bark, "Someone's cooking _fish_." It was followed by a gagging sound and then a few laughs. One of the laughs, a loud confident chuckle caught his attention.

 

" _Isabela_?"

 

* * *

 

Hawke could hardly keep herself still. She was mostly healed, her face no longer resembled minced meat, and her hair was back to its normal length. She moved from one foot to the other as Anders studied her, feeling her ribs and her stitches. After she announced very loudly that she felt fine, he gave in.

 

"You're back."

 

Hawke gave a little jump and wildly danced around him. " _What_ did you say, Anders?"

 

Anders simply shook his head, his eyes bright with amusement. "The Champion's _back_. I give you my okay to get back out there."

 

"Yes!" Hawke ran over to her estate's doorway where Varric, Isabela, and Fenris were waiting for her. She quickly grabbed Varric by the shoulders. "Get you pen out, Varric, because I'm back on top!" She grabbed her father's old, worn down staff and headed for the outside. "Let's go kill a dragon! Yeah!"

 

"Slow down, Hawke," Varric advised her. "We're going to start with some raider captains on the docks. _Then_ maybe a dragon."

 

"Don't go promising her that," Fenris snorted.

 

Isabela agreed. "A midnight jaunt to the Bone Pit does _not_ sound like fun. And I need some fun." She turned to Hawke with a smirk. "Help me pick out some fun?"

 

"Oh, that's what I'm here for. To be your unneeded wingman." Hawke laughed, stretching out her limbs and lead the way to the docks.

 

This was the best she had felt in ages. She wasn't a helpless doll anymore; she was the Maker damned Champion of Kirkwall. And everyone knew it now.

 

The minute they hit the docks Fenris started complaining about the smell, which got him a few weak laughs. They laughed louder when he actually gagged on the stench.

 

Hawke walked ahead of them, grinning like an idiot before she stiffened out of reflex. Damn if that wasn't the tallest bloke she'd ever seen, and her father and Carver had been tall men. She had nearly mistaken him for a Qunari, hence her reaction. She nudged Isabela. "Check out the giant. Maker, was his father a Qunari?"

 

Varric and Fenris followed her gaze. "He's probably here to help with reconstruction," Varric shrugged. "They need some poor bastard to lift the heavy stuff."

 

"Or they need someone to help "attend to" all the new widows," Isabela purred and headed his way.

 

"I really doubt _that's_ why he's here," Hawke scoffed, but to her surprise the man was walking towards them. Oh, no. Even though she had promised to aid Isabel in her quest for "fun" (sex, she was really talking about sex), Hawke had been bedridden for far too long to miss out on some real action now. "Sorry, Isabela. Some other time." She grabbed the pirate by the wrist and steered out of the man's path. She elbowed him out of her way. "Sorry, farm boy. Some other time, eh?"

 

"Oh, you are such a buzz kill," Isabela grouched, looking back over her shoulder. "He looked sort of familiar..."

 

"Then you've been there, boned that. Let's _move_!" She was not missing out on her first piece of action since the Arishok. Isabela could wait on _one_ piece of ass. Even if it was a really well-formed ass that belonged to a really well-formed, tall person. _Damn_ , she need to hurt something.

 

* * *

 

"Farm boy?" Aedan repeated, still looking quite shocked. That certainly wasn't the reaction he had wanted. " _Farm boy_?"

 

"You struck out?" A dock worker came over and patted Aedan's shoulder apologetically. "Don't worry. She was out of your league."

 

Aedan's mouth quirked up. He asked the man good-naturedly, "Oh, was she?"

 

"Of course she was." He stated that as if it should have been obvious. "That was the Champion."

 

 _Oh_.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Doglords

 

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Chapter 6:** Doglords

* * *

 

 _Well, they had their chance to surrender_ , Hawke frowned and stepped back, away from the fight. Varric appeared at her side while Isabela and Fenris charged forward into the sea of raiders. One of them recognized Isabela and waved “hello” at her. Right before she stabbed him. Hawke shook her head and unhooked her father's staff from her back and observed how her companions were doing.

As she electrocuted the raider captain to her left, Hawke noticed that Isabela was surrounded. She quickly shielded Isabela with a barrier spell. When Fenris called for healing she rolled a health potion across the battlefield to him. It was comforting to see nothing had changed during her time off. Hawke didn't so much as fight as ensure that none of her friends died. It might not have been the most glorious way to do things, but it was what she knew.

It was what she had tried to do for her family.

Tried.

Shoving a horrible image of Bethany's broken body from her mind, Hawke focused on the task at hand. Messing up raiders all while trying to remain somewhat blood free.

* * *

 

 

 _That wasn't the way I would have done it._ Aedan felt odd watching the Champion and her companions fight. He kept wanting to jump in or at least shout some advice down to them. He had a decent view of what was going on from one of the dock warehouse's rooftops. The Champion was putting on quite the show for him. All he needed was some snacks.

 _Maker, man, you just ate_ , he reprimanded himself quickly. Once the Champion's victory was ensured and she and her companions had parted ways, Aedan dropped down from his rooftop. His goal was to catch up with Isabela, as she was the only one of the Champion's current companions that he knew. And he had some questions. 

Isabela still was quick, he realized as he jogged after her and soon lost sight of the swaggering pirate. Guessing, Aedan turned a corner and found himself in a dead end alley. “Shit.” He spun around and found his way blocked in. He repeated his earlier sentiment. “ _Shit_.”

The cutthroats in front of him were desperate and hungry, Aedan's least favorite combination. They were very seldom swayed from their path. Ah, he'd try anyway.

“Gentlemen,” he addressed them pleasantly though they were anything but.

Their leader, the cleanest of the group, grinned at him. Aedan sighed. He could already tell he was going to regret this little jaunt of his. “You're Ferelden.”

Oh, by Andraste's _shield_ , was his accent really that obvious? “So you've noticed,” he returned flatly. 

“How could we not? You Fereldens invade our city and stink up the damn place. Doglords,” he spat at Aedan's feet and the noble felt his lip curl unintentionally. The man went on. “And now one of your bitches is our “champion”. The Maker does like to play games.”

Aedan, as much as he wanted to, couldn't argue with him about that last part. He definitely was regretting not having his shield with him. He had brought his family sword and shield with him for this occasion, cleaning it clean of dust. He may have taken up Warden made weapons, but having his family's blade in hand and shield covering his back was more comforting than he liked. Regardless, he still had the Cousland family blade with him. It would be enough.

Though he tired of this game and was becoming cross, Aedan attempted to engage them in conversation once again. “I need to pass. Is there anyway we can make this happen without bloodshed?”

“Name your price.” The thug's eyes wandered over to Aedan's purse.

To the Void with _that_. He still had some semblance of honor, after all. And paying a toll to some dirty Free Marchers for safe passage would shatter it. He was about to tell them to shove it when reinforcements literally rained down from the rooftops. It seemed in Kirkwall thugs and expendable mercenaries just fell from the bloody sky. Before Aedan could decided with group of thugs to turn his blade on first, the ones in front of him or the ones that had just dropped in, the leader fell forward with a bright, golden handled dagger in his back. 

“You take the ones on the right, I'll get the left.” Isabela had appeared, dark haired and deadly temptress that she was, pulling out another dagger from somewhere on her bodice. She added with a smirk Aedan recognized, “Sound like a plan, sweet thing?”

Aedan gave her a quick bow. “After you, Isabela.” Without waiting another moment, Aedan spun and hacked at the side of the nearest merc. It wasn't a lethal stroke, but it did what he had in mind. It knocked the mercenary to the ground and kept her there, but it didn't kill her. Yet.

Isabela did her work on the others as he slashed and hacked his way through the rest. Without his shield he was allowed more freedom of movement, though it also left him more open. He sustained a few cuts, nothing critical, but the worst of it came when he opened up the throat of one attacker and was sprayed with a wave of blood without a shield to block it. There was no way he was going to be able to slip into the Comte's home dripping in blood. It was not the right way to begin their budding relationship.

Wiping blood out of his eyes, he looked for his next target and found himself blessedly alone with Isabela. “Well,” he said, sliding his sword back into his sheath. He'd wipe it clean later. “That was invigorating.”

“Why is it only bloodshed that gets you going?” Isabela frowned at him, trying to scrub grime off her bare legs. Aedan blinked as he studied her, glad to see something familiar in this blasted place. But why wasn't she wearing pants? Probably the heat. Aedan didn't blame her at all. If he had her legs, he'd do the same. “I know other activities that involve less blood and are just as _invigorating_.”

The Warden chuckled at that. “I see _you_ haven't changed, Isabela. Almost thought you didn't recognize me back there. I know your Champion did not.”

“You've never exactly been one to blend into a crowd. There's not many men that could boast your _size_. ” Isabela was practically purring now.

Aedan groaned. He thought he had escaped such obvious euphemisms when Zevran had left for Antiva. “Already, Isabela? Really? I'm all covered in blood.”

“As if that's a turn off.” She laughed freely at him. “And why shouldn't I hit the ground running? I don't see that wildling of yours. She was _not_ the sharing type if I remember correctly.”

His smile was forced now. “No, Morrigan was not. And I thank the Maker for that.”

“Oooh, you nobles are so _stuffy_.” Isabela sighed and sheathed her daggers. “Well, Cousland, was there a reason you were following me?”

How did he want to play this? He decided to be straight with her. “I find myself with business in Kirkwall.”

“Maker, I could have called _that_. You don't do anything without some greater purpose.”

Peeved with all the interruptions, Aedan talked over her. “I've been sent to attend your Champion's banquet. And since it seems the two of you are acquainted with one another, I thought I'd ask you your opinion of her. And I also need a bath.”

Isabela grinned and gestured to the open ocean that was accessible through the docks. “The ocean's all one big bath, you know. I'll find us a secluded spot.”

“I'd appreciate it,” he returned suspiciously and followed her down to the docks and to a stretch of empty beach. With the hour so late there was little chance of them being spotted. It would do, he supposed, as long as he didn't take his time.

Aedan began stripping off his clothes. His armor was too noticeable to wear and not draw attention to himself so that had been left back with the Comte and Comtessa. When he noticed Isabela wasn't joining him he called her out on it. Her reply? “I prefer to watch.”

“That's not what I've heard.”

“Oooh, you're funny now?”

“Just honest.”

“Bah,” she shook her head in disapproval. “Those clothes are done for. I'll see if I can find you some others. Wait here.”

Aedan drawled in response, “Oh, yes. I'll just wait here, naked and exposed, in a strange city while you run off.” She didn't even respond to that. Just ran off into the night, hopefully to return with pants that would be long enough. Aedan started scrubbing his boots first. He had slipped in some poor sod's intestines earlier and the smell was getting to him.

 

Luckily for him, Isabela did return with pants. And with a few friends from the local brothel. The pirate had promised them a chance to see the Hero of Ferelden naked and the bastards had jumped at the chance. “I _hate_ you!” Aedan shouted at her and her company as he tried to pull on the new clothes as quickly as he could. When he was finally fully dressed again, he clambered back up to the main part of the docks and watched Isabela's friends scatter into the wind.

Straightening out his collar, Aedan sent a scathing glare Isabela's way. “Though I appreciate your friends' interest, all I asked for was pants and your opinion. I have the former, but I'm still waiting for the latter.”

“You're just going to her banquet, what do you need to know about her?” Isabela watched him try to keep his new, too wide pants from slipping down. “You're thinner than I remember.”

“You met me before I took a little trip down to Fort Drakon's dungeons. Lost a bit of weight there. Gained some height, though.” The image of a rotting, blood stained rack flashed in the back of his mind. Self-consciously Aedan began to rub the messy scars on his wrists.

Isabela was untroubled by his words, though he knew she got his meaning. “Ah, luckily for you I brought this with me.” She held up a black strap of leather in her hands. Aedan blanched.

“You're a special woman, Isabela, but I'm, uh, not into that.”

She hit him with the strap, guffawing. “It's a _belt_ , not a whip.” She reached out and grabbed the front of his pants, yanking him forward. She began the work of slipping his belt through the loops and buckling it for him. Aedan just rolled his eyes and let her. “So,” he said nonchalantly, “the Champion. What kind of person is she?”

“One that worries too much. And feels guilty about things she cannot change. Sort of like you.” Isabela thought for a minute. She added with a chuckle, “And makes really bad puns. All the time. Every time she decapitates someone, _every time_ , she says “someone didn't have their _head_ in the game”.” Isabela did her best imitation of Hawke's Ferelden accent.

“You're kidding me,” Aedan told her in disbelief. “I thought she was a cutthroat mercenary.”

“What? She can't do that _and_ make puns?”

Well, he supposed it was possible. “Perhaps I should wait and see for myself what she's like.”

“I'm not lying to you,” Isabela protested. “ _Farm boy_.”

He scowled. “For that I'm only buying you _one_ drink.”

“Hey, it's a start.”

Aedan shook his head and followed her into the local tavern. He took the time to drill her about Kirkwall and the Arishok before she spotted someone friendlier and with a freer purse. Aedan wished her luck and set out back for the Comte's mansion.

* * *

 

“Can I _dance_?” Hawke repeated the question slowly. Bran was back in her estate, along with a few of her companions, and was quizzing her once again on what little etiquette she knew. “I know a few reels, but...”

“Those are peasant dances,” Seneschal Bran snapped, his migraine worsening by the hour.

Hawke threw up her hands. “Imagine that. The peasant girl only knows peasant dances. Who would have called that one?”

Bran sighed deeply. “Then I suppose I'll have to teach you the fundamentals.”

Hawke quickly raised a hand to keep him at bay. “Ah, I'm not dancing with you. Dancing with you means you'll have to touch me and I've seen you in Anders's clinic _way_ too many times to allow that to happen.” She turned to her friends. Her only other options were her rogues; Varric, Sebastian, and Isabela.

Isabela sauntered over. “C'mon, Hawke. You don't want to embarrass yourself in front of the Warden.”

Confused, Bran and Hawke asked at the same time, “The _Warden_?”

They didn't know? Isabela was practically bouncing with glee over the fact she knew something the rest of them didn't. Even Varric looked at her blankly. “Wait...you all don't know?” She ran over to Hawke and, taking her arm, twirled the mage around a few turns. “The Hero of Ferelden is coming to your banquet!”

“ _What_?” Once again Hawke and Bran spoke in unison. Bran, however, recovered first.

“Ferelden did say they were sending an ambassador. He must be the Warden, Lord Cousland, I believe?” Bran's initial shock had easily dissipated. Hawke's had not. Her voice cracked as she choked out, “The Warden's _coming_?”

“If I can help it, _yes_. Again and again.”

“Isabela, take this seriously!” Hawke shrieked and raced over to Sebastian and grabbed both of his gloved hands. “Choir Boy! Teach me to dance. Relive the days of your wild youth, but watch yourself!”

“Ah, Hawke, slow down!” Sebastian pleaded with her as she had taken to spinning the both of them around her study's floor. “This isn't even a dance!”

“I have to learn something! Lead, Sebastian, lead!” Hawke was almost frantic. “I can't make a fool of myself with the Warden there! Shit! I didn't listen to anything Bran said!”

“What do you mean you didn't listen?! I've been here for days!”

Varric nudged Isabela, giving her a knowing look. “Are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

“Oh, I most certainly am.” Isabela pulled Hawke out of her and Sebastian's ridiculous spinning. She waited for Hawke to get her sense of balance back before she started in on her. “You have a _crush_.” Isabela stared at Hawke as if she had just given the pirate the greatest gift in all of Thedas. “You have a _crush_ on the _Hero of Ferelden_. You've never had a crush! Never!”

Hawke protested that. “I've shown an interest in people before! You _can't_ tell me I've never had a crush.”

Isabela waved a hand at that. “Yes, I know that, but you've never blushed or ran into stuff or let your mouth say stupid, embarrassing things you can never take back. But look at you now! You're acting like an idiot!”

“Oh, shut up.” Hawke grumbled irritably. “There isn't a woman in Ferelden that doesn't have a crush on the Warden. The stories you hear...” She sighed dreamily before crossing her arms and scowling. “It's just a dumb crush, all right? Don't make me any more nervous than I already am.”

“You're nervous about facing down a few nobles?” Varric chuckled. “Imagine how they feel about meeting _you_ , the little Ferelden girl who brought down the Arishok?”

“I was allowed to _stab_ the Arishok. I'm not allowed to stab the nobles. I think. Am I allowed? Like it there's a really obnoxious one?” She looked to Bran expectantly for an answer.

He looked disturbed. “I hope I don't actually have to reply to that.”

“Then I'm going to assume that's a 'yes'.”

“It's definitely a 'no'.”

“I'm definitely disappointed.”

Sebastian clapped her chastely on the shoulder. “Don't worry so, Hawke. I'll be there. And if you get nervous, I find reciting the Chant calms me down.”

“I only know the dirty version of the Chant, Sebastian. I doubt that will help.”

The Chantry brother looked stricken. “There's a _dirty_ version?”

“ _My heart is yours, my breasts are yours, and my ass is yours. For all who walk in the red light of the brothel are-_ -”

Sebastian cut her off with a sudden cry. “Hawke! It's ' _my hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one_ '. What _you_ said was blasphemy! ”

“You didn't even let me get to the next verse. That's where all the good blasphemy takes place.” Isabela nodded in agreement.

“ _Please_ don't.”

Bran tried to get them back on track. “Hawke, do you have an escort for the night?”

Hawke's face twisted in confusion. “You want me to hire a whore?” She ignored the sounds of Bran hitting himself in the face.

“Maker, no!”

“Ohhh.” She thought she understood. “An armed escort, then? I should be fine. I'm all healed up and should be good to go.”

Varric came to her rescue, as usual. “He means to say that an unmarried woman such as yourself needs a male escort. It's improper not to. According to Orlesians, at least.”

There was a pause. Hawke slowly inched over to Sebastian and latched onto his arm. “I have an escort. One that won't touch my ass or let anyone else touch it either. It's a good trait in an escort.”

“Ah,” Sebastian peeled her off of him. “I'm not sure that would be appropriate.”

“And Duke Prosper already has provided you with--” Bran began before Hawke cut him off.

“ _That_ guy again? Who is he? Did I save his grandmother from certain death or something?” Hawke found a chair and sank into it. Her mabari, Rebel, ran over to her and started licking her hand.

The Seneschal looked tired. “I'm sure I don't know. But the Duke has offered his son as Serah Hawke's escort for the night. It would be wise to except.”

Hawke groaned. “ _Why_ is he doing this to me? Did I _kill_ his grandmother?” Rebel sensed her distress and whimpered in response.

“His son is named Cyril. Lord Cyril.” Bran, obviously at the end of his rope, began gathering up his things. “Serah Hawke, just...try not to embarrass Kirkwall.”

“Bran, without me there wouldn't _be_ a Kirkwall.” She was sitting upside down now, her feet kicking in the air. It was quite the spectacle.

He stared back at her for a moment. “Yes. And how you accomplished that I will never know.”

“Rebel, see our guest out.”

Bran startled and then stumbled out the estate with a mabari at his heels. Hawke grinned.

“Good, boy.”

* * *

 

 

There were positives to having a squire, Aedan decided reluctantly. Though he was unused to being waited on, it was nice not having to unpack. When he had finally returned to the de Launcet's place his things were already laid out and cleaned. Damn, the girl was efficient. The following morning the Comtessa sent for him. Evidently she had been put in charge of choosing and designing his outfit for the Champion's banquet.

If there were _any_ ruffles on it _anywhere_ , he was torching it.

The Comtessa greeted him with kisses on both of his cheeks. Aedan just stared at her, stunned with the sudden intrusion of his personal space. Orlesians were...odd.

She seemed to sense he wanted to rush this encounter so she quickly showed him his outfit, draped on an armor stand. “What do you think? I had Isolde help me.”

Well, there weren't any ruffles. It had that going for it. And he had been worried when she had mentioned Isolde. Eamon's wife was a strong woman, but she still had Orlesian fashion tastes.

Honestly, he had grown unused to fine clothing. He couldn't recall the last time he had worn such finery. But, he had to admit, what Isolde and the Comtessa had done wasn't in any way bad. It suited him, he thought, feeling the material. The pants were dark grey with a light grey top. Intricate designs covered the collar in sky blue thread. Black boots polished to a shine, probably by his own squire, were on the floor next to the clothes. The outfit also had a cloak, blue-grey in color. It was pinned with a silver griffon. Aedan couldn't help but smile at that. Once he had hinted to Alistair how much Wynne despised griffons the two wouldn't talk of anything else while in her company. It wasn't Aedan's best moment, but in his defense, he and his company had walked _everywhere_ and there was only so much one could do to entertain themselves on the road. 

The Comtessa waited until he was done admiring her work. “Will this suit you for tonight, my Lord?” She actually sounded worried. Aedan gave her a nod and tried a smile on her.

“It will do, my Lady.”

 


	7. Orleasians, Darling, You Get Used To It (Part 1)

 

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Chapter 7:** Orleasians, Darling, You Get Used To It (Part 1)

 

 **A/N:** And _finally_ we get to the damn banquet! Oh, and this isn't the final chapter, just in case some people thought the banquet was the end of it. Once again, I love getting your feedback and/or questions!

* * *

 

Whatever material the Comtessa had used for his suit was _itchy_. Aedan waited until no one was watching to scratch vigorously under his collar. His squire, Edith, was having the same issue as the Comtessa had made her an outfit that matched his own. The Comtessa had thought they were adorable. Neither Aedan nor Edith had appreciated the sentiment.

Some servant of the Viscount's Keep had informed Aedan how the night would go. The Champion was first to be seated in the Throne Room where the nobles would go one by one and presented her with their gifts. After everyone had a turn, the party would move into a dining area for the actual banquet. And, of course, because the Orleasians _had_ to come to this, there would be dancing after. Fantastic.

Aedan moved from one foot to the other. He hated all the standing around these events always had. The _things_ he could have accomplished with all this wasted time. Infuriatingly, he had been placed at the back of the line. It had been explained that the most influential nobles are first and last, and Duke Propser's son was the Champion's escort so they _had_ to go first. Couldn't leave the Champion unsupervised.

His squire was at his side, a fierce scowl on her face. As a bastard child, she must have grown to despise the Kirkwall nobles who would not have not treated her kindly. And now she was stuck attending a banquet with them. Her mace had been replaced with a sword as that had seemed more appropriate for such an event. Aedan had bought and paid for the weapon, though she had refused vehemently. Once Aedan explained that she was responsible for watching his back and he didn't want an ill equipped squire for that, she had grudgingly accepted.

His family's guards were distributed around the Keep and were instructed to report first to him, and _then_ to the Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen. His wardens, Cartier and Sienna, were at his side as well. Unlike his guards, his wardens had been invited to dine as well. And while Sienna was excited about the change in plans, Cartier looked sick.

“Is there a problem, Warden Cartier?” Aedan asked with a raised brow.

Sienna made a face. “It's probably all this damn perfume. I can barely breath.” A few nobles had turned to glare at her and she gestured for them to face front. “Don't look at me. Turn around.”

Cartier didn't seem willing to share. “It is nothing, my Lord.”

Aedan inwardly sighed at the “my lord”. He was going to be getting that all night. “If you're about to piss off one of these nobles with your presence, I'd like to know about it first.”

“You know how I was banished for, uh, deflowering a noble's child?” Aedan simply nodded for him to go on. “That noble's here. With his only child. His _son_. The son I--”

Aedan stopped him there. “ _Got_ it. I got it.” His brow furrowed. “Though I was under the impression that affairs of any sort were common in Orleais?”

“His father wasn't like that. Unfortunately.”

“Ah.” Aedan peered at the head of the line, looking for a noble sending glares their direction. It didn't take Aedan long to find him or his ruffle wearing son. Aedan then spoke words he later regretted. “Cartier, he seems a bit fancy for your tastes. I would have thought you'd go for someone more rugged.”

Cartier sneered at him. “Well, I _normally_ go for tall men, but those are in short supply in Orleais. I like _tall_ men, with _dark_ hair, scars, especially _facial_ scars, and cold eyes, and--”

“Okay, now you're just describing me. Stop it.” Aedan decided to take Sienna's advice and face front. And never ask about his subordinates' pasts ever again.

* * *

 

Lord Cyril had a bit of a baby face. Hawke tried her damnedest not to notice it, but there it was. She just wanted to reach out and pinch his cheeks, but she was almost certain that was considered rude in polite company. Her fingers still itched with the need, though.

She loved and _hated_ her dress. She loved how pretty it was because there was no denying that. But it was very...unfit for a Champion. It was also hard to sit in. Bran had placed her in the Viscount's old throne, even though Meredith had protested the move with every fiber in her being. Hawke was stuck sitting up straight as one of Sebastian's arrows. Cyril was seated next to her in a smaller chair, attempting to carry on a conversation with her. She had responded by saying that she liked his outfit and had one just like it at home. From his sudden silence it had been the wrong thing to say.

 _If it got him to shut up I'm not taking it back,_ Hawke thought as she stood up. For the twelfth time tonight she had been asked to show off the weapon she had used to defeat the Arishok. It made her nervous, letting these slimy nobles touch the only reminder of her father she had left, but Bran had warned her that this would be asked of her. Her father's staff, after this Antivan noble admired all its nicks and scratches, went back to rest along her chair. Her pile of gifts had grown exponentially. There were the boots made of wveryn skin that Cyril's father had given her, about twelve swords she was donating to Aveline's guards as soon as possible, and dresses that she had no idea where she was going to wear them to. If she showed up at the Hanged Man in one of those get ups she'd be laughed out of Kirkwall.

Damn, she was finally good to fight again and she had to spend a whole night with nobles pretending to make nice with her. She had met a _lot_ of their sons. That couldn't bode well.

_If Mother was here, she'd know what to do...or she'd have me married off before I could blink twice._

“Do you hunt, Champion?” Cyril was trying to start up the conversation again.

“Like, people?” she asked, confused. She realized her mistake a second later but Bran made an announcement that earned her full attention.

“Introducing, the Hero of Ferelden, ambassador and chancellor for King Alistair Theirin, Commander of the Grey Wardens in Amaranthine...” Bran had to take a breath. Man had a lot of titles. “Brother of Teryn Cousland, Lord Aedan.”

Hawke stood up as he approached. It just seemed the right thing to do. Damn, she would have been less nervous if it hadn't been for Isabela's teasing. But, then, what did she have to be nervous for? She had faced worse, much worse, and had come out fine before. Hawke straightened up to her full height and put her hands behind her back. She smoothed out her features and replaced her faltering smile with the grim scowl she had picked up from Carver.

The Warden approached her quickly, his fast steps echoing throughout the throne room. The rest of the nobles had taken their time walking down to her, using the occasion to model their new outfits. Not the Warden, though. He marched down the aisle, not bothering to greet the nobles to his left or right. His grey cloak flew behind him rather majestically and he was followed by a girl nearly two heads shorter than he was. Two wardens, in official warden robes and armor, were tailing him as well. Bodyguards. Even Hawke knew it was impolite to bring personal guards to a public party. But she doubted the Warden wanted to make friends with a bunch of Orleasians.

 _Maker, he's tall._ That thought sparked a recent memory, though Hawke couldn't recall which. His hair was short, _very_ short. It was a military cut she had seen in the troops that had passed through her former home in Lothering. It contrasted greatly with the long, flowing locks the other nobles sported. The Warden had a gaunt, grim face and eyes that were better suited for a corpse.

Hawke held out her hand. She was dreading this. All night these fancy pants lords had grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. She thought she was getting a rash.

Thankfully the Warden didn't kiss her hand; instead he shook it as firmly as if she was one of his soldiers. “Champion. You have _no idea_ how good it is to see another Ferelden. Your city has no love for our people, though they seem to have made an exception for you.”

“Oh, you know how it is,” she laughed, rubbing the hand he shook. “Stab a few Qunari, save everyone from certain death, and suddenly you're not so bad.”

Aedan nodded and caught a glimpse of a wooden staff sparking with enchantment to the Champion's left. It was nearly buried by the noble's expensive gifts. He indicated it with a quick gesture. “Show me yours and I'll show you mine.”

“What?” Hawke didn't notice that Aedan was pointing at her father's staff. She quickly stammered in response, “I didn't _say_ I wanted to see it! Did I? Did I say that _out loud_? Well, that _is_ something I would do...never mind, man, _keep it in your pants_!”

Aedan stared at her while Cyril coughed into his fist uncomfortably. The Warden clarified slowly, “I _meant_ if you show me the staff you killed the Arishok with, I'll show you the blade I slayed the Arch-demon with. And I think it would be best for everyone if I kept my pants on.”

Ah. Well, this couldn't get any worse. “Right. _Right_.” She quickly grabbed her staff and handed it off to him. In return she received a sword and her hand dipped at the unexpected weight. She recognized the Cousland insignia on the hilt as she traded weapons with him again. She quickly placed her staff back with the rest of her things.

“So, uh,” Hawke began pleasantly. “Did you bring me a present?”

* * *

 

“When is this bloody line going to _move_?” Cartier's patience was the last to break. He grumbled a bit more and then blinked when he noticed Sienna and Aedan were staring at him.

“Cartier, did you just use 'bloody' in a sentence?” Aedan looked smug. “You're becoming more and more Ferelden the longer you stay with us. Imagine that.”

“Maker, _no_ ,” Cartier whispered. “Don't say that so loud!”

Sienna began chanting. “One of us, one of us, one of--”

“ _Introducing, the Hero of Ferelden, ambassador and chancellor--”_

Aedan snapped his fingers at the two of them. “That's us. Let's move out.” He drew Edith to his side and made his way quickly down the aisle. There was no time to be wasted. He hadn't eaten anything all day in preparation for the banquet he planned to stuff himself at and his stomach was protesting that not so wise decision.

He made a beeline straight for the Champion. It was strange to see someone look so deadly in a dress. Well, Anora had pulled it off, too. Hawke's head was held high and she was glaring down at him from atop the flight of stairs that separated the throne from the main floor.

After quickly climbing the short steps, Aedan saw her outstretched hand and shook it firmly. “Champion,” he greeted her. “You have _no idea_ how good it is to see another Ferelden. Your city has no love for our people, though they seem to have made an exception for you.

The Champion smirked, her laugh lines betraying that this was an often event. She made some kind of joke and later thought he was trying to make some sort of innuendo. Damn, Isabela had _not_ been lying when she had said bad jokes and puns were Hawke's preferred method of communication. 

Aedan quickly mended the situation and, hoping to move him along, Hawke outright demanded her gift. Someone else may have considered it rude, but Aedan shared her wish to get things going quickly. The man making all of the announcements, a seneschal, smacked himself in the face when she did that but they all tried to ignore him.

“Right. Squire,” Aedan motioned to the girl to step forward. Edith knelt before the Champion, which was unnecessary in Aedan's opinion but he didn't correct her, and presented her with a small wooden jewelry case. Hawke's left eyebrow raised curiously.

“It's small. Is this one of “it's not the size that matters, it's what you do with it” sort of things?”

Aedan sighed. “I would suppose so, my lady.” He went on to explain what the box contained but she cut him off. She apparently loved to talk.

“Don't 'milady' me. You haven't seen me dance yet.” Hawke reached down and plucked the box from Edith's hands. She opened the box and pulled out the item with a confused expression. “Wait. Is this a _tiara_?”

Aedan quickly corrected her. He did not want it thought that he had given the Champion a Maker damned crown. “ _Technically_ , it's a circlet. It was worn by mages in the Imperium a long time ago.”

Hawke turned to Aedan, a frown creasing her face. She held up the frosted silver circlet in the air so the rest of the crowd could see what Aedan had presented her with. “They wear this in Tevinter?” Her hatred for the Imperium was obvious in those five words. Aedan was surprised. Tevinter was an awful place from what he knew, but he would have thought a mage would feel a little bit differently about it.

“They _used_ to wear them. The Magisters wear really ugly hats now.” Sienna had stepped in to explain in a voice so quiet that only she, Aedan, and the Champion could hear her. “I found this on a statue in the Circle. I stole it.”

Aedan slowly turned to her, all humor gone from his face. “Stole it?” _You let me give the Champion stolen property?!_

She was indignant. “They were going to _kill_ me! And all it was doing was collecting dust! I took it with us when you recruited me and I've kept it buried outside the Keep. I knew you would take it back if you found out I had it, and it was such a shame to let it rot in the ground...”

Aedan faced Hawke, seething and embarrassed, only to find her grinning maniacally down at him. “This was from the _Ferelden Circle_? And you _stole_ it? I have _stolen Circle property_?” She laughed and jammed the circlet down on her short, blue-black hair. “My father would have approved. Thank you.”

He blinked. It seemed Isabela had not been exaggerating. The Champion was unpredictable. “Ah, well, that was certainly not my intention, but if you have no objection to being given a stolen gift...” His mind raced, trying to handle the situation as diplomatically as he could.

“Do you have any idea how many bodies I loot in a day?” The Champion had definitely said that too loudly. “I have no problem with it. And you're the bloody _Warden_. What are you doing apologizing to anybody?”

He couldn't help but smirk back at her. “I don't usually. And here, let me fix that.” The way she had put on the tiara- _dammit, circlet_ \- had messed up her hair, causing it to stick up in places he suspected weren't meant to. Aedan pulled the circlet off and quickly readjusted it, taking care of the few strands of hair that refused to stay down. “There. It's enchanted so that it won't fall off during battle.”

Hawke stared down at him quizzically. “Why in the Void would I wear it into battle?”

“It allows the wearer immunity to certain abilities...” He lowered his voice a bit more. “Abilities known to the templars, if you understand my meaning.”

Aedan saw the Champion's eyes flash. She understood. Immunity from templars would be coveted by any mage, even one that was named Champion of a city and should therefore have nothing to fear.

They had taken too long. The Seneschal stepped forward and dismissed the guests to the dining area.

* * *

 

Hawke watched the Warden leave with the others as Bran stepped next to her. He spoke to her quietly, so Cyril would not overhear, “I'm surprised you handled that so well, considering your prior reaction to the mere mention of the man.”

He was trying to get a rise out of her. Amateur. Hawke chuckled, shrugging. “Well, I decided if I kick his ass in a bar fight I won't be _nearly_ so starstruck. Sound like a plan?”

Bran turned an unhealthy shade of red. He started sputtering and spitting, but all she heard was something about a 'political maelstrom'. That all sounded like his problem, not hers. Hawke extended her hand to Cyril and nodded towards the dining area. “Be a good escort and lead the way, will you? Or perform a lap dance. It's your choice. You decide what kind of escort you want to be.”

Those words did not help Bran's state of mind at all.

 

The dining room had one of those long rectangular tables that Hawke had fantasied about. Not eating on them with a bunch of nobles around. No, her dreams involved a much _different_ use of the table. A use she decided was best to keep to herself or save for any future partners.

On her left was Duke Prosper, who was seated right nest to Cyril, his son. The Warden was on her right (without his guards, they were eating in a different room) and Varric was seated next to him. Hawke knew Varric better than to think that particular seated arrangement had been random happenstance. The dwarf was either there to keep her from making a fool of herself or just to watch what would inevitably happen and then write on it later.

Like his son, Duke Prosper's favorite subject was hunting, but he sounded much more experienced at actually hunting than Cyril. All Cyril had talked about were the banquets that occurred after a hunt. Hawke only interrupted Prosper once.

“What in Thedas is a _wveryn_?”

“It's similar to a dragon,” Varric prompted, just to keep the conversation going. Hawke shot him another suspicious glare. What was his angle for being there? She saw a few of her other companions at the banquet as well. Sebastian was seated down the table with the other Starkhaven nobles. Aveline and Donnic were back and forth, checking on the other guards every five minutes. Anders had been very clear that with the Wardens attending that he needed to make himself scarce. Merrill and Fenris hadn't shown up, but she couldn't really blame them. Being mistaken for a manservant or waitress was an embarrassment she would have avoided as well. Isabela had already left with some, or a few, lucky nobles that had no idea that the next morning they'd wake up robbed and without pants. Eh, they could afford it. Hawke caught herself and attempted to follow the conversation.

“They make for an excellent hunt. You should join us sometime, Champion.” Duke Propser produced a fancy looking invitation that was handed to him by one of the servants. “Chateau Haine is one of the finest hunting grounds you'll ever experience.”

Hawke took the invite, trying to seem enthusiastic. “Oh...I'll have to try to find some time for a vacation. You know Kirkwall, _always_ on the brink of utter destruction.”

His grace smiled weakly at that. “Oh, and I would have had an invitation made for _you_ , Warden, but I was not made aware that you were going to be here tonight.”

“Don't worry, your grace,” Aedan replied, sneaking a glance at the Champion. “I've had more than my fair share of giant lizards trying to eat me.”

“I see.” Duke Prosper pursed his lips and went on to tell Hawke about Cyril's last hunt and how it had gone down. She might have been more impressed if she knew what a wveryn even _was_.

* * *

 

Hawke ate only the soup, because the soup spoon was the only utensil she was absolutely sure of. The Warden, however, ate everything that was placed in front of him. He even had the nerve to eye her plate and she knew if they were anywhere else he might have just snatched her plate from her. She had seen the same look in Carver many a time before.

Of course, she had been allowed to set Carver's pants on fire. Well, her father hadn't so much as allowed it as told Carver that if he kept stealing his sister's food something bad would happen and Marian had decided that good old karma needed a little help. At any rate, she couldn't do the same to the Warden. Not with so many witnesses about.

Bran made another announcement and from years of tuning him out Hawke missed what he said. All she knew was suddenly everyone was leaving the table, some gaudy, awful music was being played, and all the Orleasians were on the dance floor and were hopping about like drunkards. Hawke stood up and backed away from them. “What are they, possessed?”

Bran appeared at her back, placing a hand on her shoulder. “They're dancing. As you should be.” He tried to give her a light push but she wouldn't budge.

“Oh, I don't fucking _think_ so.” There was no way she hopping around like that. She may have lived in Kirkwall for years now, but she was still Ferelden to the core.

“Language,” Bran scolded her. “These people think you're a lady.”

“No,” Hawke retorted instantly. That was far from true. She had seen the looks the other 'ladies' had given her. Had heard the whispers. _The qunari called her 'worthy'. What had she done to earn those monsters' respect?_ “I'm just the freak of the week for them. Don't think I don't know that.”

“Fine.” Bran had tired of her rather quickly. “But you must act as though you don't. And dance.”

She nodded reluctantly. “I'll play the part for you, don't worry. I'm a _wondrous_ actor.”

“How nice. Too bad you're dancing skills aren't wondrous in any sense of the word.”

He ran away before she could pinch him. Bastard.

 

Maker, this was undignified. Aedan was hiding in the kitchens, trying to stay out of the servants' ways as they cleaned dishes and put away leftover food. He received a number of strange looks, but really what choice did he have? Dulce had headed his way the instant the music had begun and there was no way he was doing that moronic, new dance.

And especially not with Dulce. She was mean.

Damn. How long had he been hiding? The song had to be over by now...

Aedan straightened up and glanced about the room. A flash of white hair and dark skin moved past him, weaving in between the servants. From the man's stature he was an elf, but from the way the other servants regarded him Aedan knew he didn't belong in the kitchens. Interesting.

Before he could think on it further, Cartier came in the retrieve him. “The dance is over. It's relatively safe out there now, Commander.”

He couldn't help but smile at that. “Oh, Cartier, we _both_ know that's not true.”

“Can't say I can disagree. Lord Cyril just twisted his ankle during that stupid dance. Maker, I can't believe I used to look forward to these things.”


	8. Orleasians, Darling, You Get Used To It (Part 2)

 

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Chapter 8:** Orleasians, Darling, You Get Used To It (Part 2)

 

 **A/N:** Part two of the banquet! We're getting back to the action now, thank the maker. Also, thanks for all the reviews. I especially like hearing what parts made you laugh and that people are enjoying my OC's. So, thanks!

* * *

 

Hawke helped Lord Cyril limp off the makeshift dance floor as regally as he could manage, collapsing onto the bench Hawke had led him to. She eagerly plopped down next to him, accidentally jarring his twisted and swollen ankle. He bit back a cry and glared at her accusingly.

“Sorry, milord,” she said without real regret. “It's really too bad you tripped and-”

“You mean you _stepped_ on me.”

Hawke blinked at him as shocked as she could manage. “Oh, milord, did you hit your head when you tripped? I would _never_ _deliberately_ step on and break your royal ankle. Perish the thought.”

Cyril's eyes squinted at her in suspicion. “I didn't think it was done deliberately. Not until now, at least.”

“Oh, you poor, confused thing.” Hawke patted his head like he was her mabari hound. “I guess I have no choice but to sit with you and miss out on all the dancing. And I do so love those strange, Orleasian dances.” She sighed over dramatically. “Oh, darn it all. Well, at least you have me for company, you lucky dog.”

When Hawke turned to grin at Cyril she noticed a dark shadow pass over his pale face. Furrowing her brow, she searched for the source of the sudden eclipse.

“Champion,” Aedan Cousland began cheerfully, towering over the both of them. “If you don't dance with me now I'm afraid I'll be left at the mercy of Lady Dulce.” He tried a grin then, but Hawke knew when someone was faking. She did it all the time.

Cyril shot in, angrily, “She's staying with me.” He wavered once he received the full effect of the Warden's dead eyed stare.

“I think,” he began slowly, “that the Champion can answer for herself. So sit tight and shut up. I can't tell what you're saying with that bloody accent anyway.”

Hawke had to hide a laugh. Cyril was turning bright pink. As the son of a Duke she doubted Cyril was talked down to often. Too bad. A lot of the nobles here deserved to be knocked down a notch. “I must confess, milord, I'm not much of a dancer.”

The Warden grunted at that. “Don't “my lord” me. Just Cousland will suffice.”

That was fine by her. She was tired of formalities. “Okay, Cousland. You'll have to lead, though. I'm at a loss here.” She waved her fingers at Cyril in farewell. “Sorry, pet, but the dance must go on.”

“But-but-but,” Cyril called after her as Hawke led the Warden away. She didn't even look back. She was too busy trying to remember the dance steps Sebastian had taught her. Unfortunately she hadn't been able to concentrate then because every time sh tried to look at her feet she had bloody Andraste staring up at her from Sebastian's crotch. Anders had been right to be disturbed by that.

“Warden,” she started, but the man frowned down at her.

“I _said_ it's Cousland. Or Aedan. _Please_ , don't call me 'warden'.” His frown became a wry grin. “I feel like no one in Ferelden knows _how_ to address me so they just use 'The Warden'. I forget my own name half the time since no one uses it.”

“I stitch my name into my underclothes. Can't forget it that way and it really comes in handy if you're in the habit of leaving your underclothes in strange places.” Hawke noticed the ward- _Aedan_ had led them to the edge of the dance floor. She assumed he was waiting for this dance to finish and the next to start. “Aedan, I wasn't lying when I said I can't dance. You're going to have to lead.”

He didn't seem to mind. “I had an Antivan sister-in-law. She made me dance with her when my brother was away.”

“My brother had a sweetheart. Peaches. I pushed her into a millpond when my brother was away.” Hawke noticed the music was starting again. She gestured towards the other dancers. “Shall we?”

Aedan's mouth tightened. “Ah, I would love to, Champion, though I'm afraid this dance might be a bit...” He paused, clearly not wanting to offend. “It's rather complicated. I'm surprised they choose it, but then again I saw a certain dwarven friend of yours speak to the musicians as soon as he saw us together.” He gave Hawke a moment to realize what he was implying.

“That _bastard_ wants to see me suffer. So he can _write_ about it.” Varric thought he was some kind of puppet master, and he sort of was, but that gimmick was getting old. 

“We could just skip this dance,” Aedan offered, but he knew her answer before she gave it.

“No, no, no. We're going to do this.” She couldn't let Varric see her back down. Instead she tugged on Aedan's arm until they were in the midst of the other dancers.

* * *

 

Aedan's mind raced, trying to remember all the steps to the current dance. It was of Antivan origin, which meant it was fast paced and extremely complicated. Oriana had taught him this particular dance (she had called it a tango, right?), but truly it was made for more...dextrous players.

The Champion was relying on him to lead, though, so he knew he had better deliver. At least he didn't have to worry about Cartier or Sienna being underfoot. He had just given them the night off and it had taken them both less than a minute to vanish into the crowd and leave him defenseless and alone. Such loyalty.

He took the Champion's ungloved hand and led her around, maneuvering for a place on the floor where they had enough room to avoid bumping into the other dancers. As soon as they had reached their intended place, however, the music began to speed up wildly. Aedan wasn't surprised to see that dwarf again (Varric, was it?) back with the musicians. Aedan knew the dwarf was responsible for the sudden, quickened pace, but he refrained from saying so to the Champion. Her head was bowed and staring at her feet as they moved around the floor. She stepped on him more than a few times, all of which she apologized for, but other than that there were no issues.

He knew he should have used this time to talk, to study her habits and reactions. It would come in handy, after all, if was going to recruit her as a spy. But the idea of asking her to turn on her home, the city who had just named her Champion, made him angry and uneasy. If anyone asked him to do the same they would have found themselves on the ground. Or _in_ the ground, depending on his mood.

He felt restless. His eyes wandered about the room as his body recalled the steps he'd been taught years ago. It was then that he noticed that there was an awful lot of movement in the throne room, especially considering that most of the work should have been in either the dining room or the kitchens. For the first couple minutes of the dance he ignored it, trying to keep his attention on the Champion. But, curious as always, he slowly moved them closer to the throne room just in time to see several suspiciously dressed men pick up the remaining pile of the Champion's gifts and run off with them. “ _Damnation_ ,” Aedan swore, getting a stronger hold of the Champion's arms and pulling her off the floor and into the throne room. It took them a few minutes as a crowd had developed around them, but Aedan kept cursing and kept pushing through until they wound up back in the throne room. Alone. Whoever had been working in there so fervently had long gone. “Maker's balls,” he murmured under his breath and he glanced about the room in a hurry. The Champion was less than impressed.

“Cousland! If you wanted to get me alone all you had to do was ask.” The Champion _tsked_ him and jerked her hands away. “But, in all seriousness, what the fuck are you doing?”

In response to that, Aedan simply raised a finger to point at the suddenly empty area around the throne. “There's nothing there,” he told her, waiting for her to realize.

“You brought me here to look at nothing?” She didn't sound impressed.

He actually growled at her: he had never been very patient.. The Champion flinched, no longer grinning. “Can you stop being so flippant and _think_? I know others like you; you use sarcasm to seem undependable.”

She gasped over dramatically. “Hey, I'm _always_ like this and I _still_ had to fight an oversized Qunari. People depend on me because I _really_ _am_ a walking pun machine... _and_ _where the fuck did all my stuff go?!_ ”

Aedan brought his hands together in mocking applause. “And my lady finally gets it. Someone's run off with all your shiny presents. What are you going to do about it?” He knew he should probably stop taunting her, though the Champion didn't seem at all fazed or irritated by it. He also shouldn't have accepted every glass of wine the servants had passed him. But, damn if it didn't help with having to listen to Dulce.

_“They took my father's staff.”_

The Champion's voice was hardly above a whisper. Aedan's eyes snapped to her face, his good, drunken humor gone. He couldn't stop himself from saying, “We'll get it back.” When he saw the faint glimmer of hope her eyes held for approximately two seconds, he regretted his words. His time in Ferelden should have taught him that making such promises never worked out in the end.

 

Hawke was seeing red, only red. The shit those nobles had given her...she could care less what happened to that pile of crap. But her _father's staff_ had been in that pile of crap. She definitely cared what happened to _that_.

She turned to Aedan who was looking at her in an almost concerned way. “This was planned.”

“Yes.” He nodded and looked towards the exit. “I glimpsed a rather large crew working on this while we were dancing. They can't have gone far, not with that much cargo. What are their possible escape routes?”

She knew that answer instantly. As an apostate she knew the first thing to learn about a new home was how to escape it. That thought might have made her sad at one time but not anymore. “There are three options given how much cargo they're trying to move. One,” she held up a single finger. “They head to the docks. Two, they travel using the undercity. And finally, they go out the main gates and into the Wounded Coast. I really doubt they'd risk the mountains on account of the Dalish.”

He nodded in agreement and even in a little bit of approval. “Your logic is sound. I would suggest alerting your friend, the Guard-Captain. But this is your city and I will follow your lead.”

Hawke moved to find Aveline before something about his words made her turn around. “You'll follow my lead? Meaning you'll help me get my father's staff back?”

“Oh, I wouldn't let you go without me.” He seemed eager, too eager, but Hawke supposed the Warden would _have_ to be a tad bloodthirsty seeing how much trouble he got himself into. “There's no way I'm standing around here with the stuffed shirts while there's work to be done. Not even if the Maker himself demanded it.” Aedan showed off his blade and gestured to the adjacet room. “Get the Guard-Captain. Have her and her guards cover two of the exits. I'll help you cover the third.”

Hawke nodded and ran off to find Aveline and Donnic. Speaking quickly to them she explained the situation in hushed tones and with a few curses.

“I could give a damn about the rest of the stuff,” Hawke admitted to her large, ginger friend, “but Malcolm's staff? That is _not_ leaving this blasted city while I'm alive.”

Aveline frowned before ordering her husband to take a few guards to the city gates and keep anyone from exiting that way. Kirkwall's entrance would be the easiest to guard, Hawke and Aveline both knew that. The docks and the undercity, though? _Much_ more difficult to manage.

“I'm going to find Varric,” Hawke announced to Aveline.

“Woah!” The Guard-Captain stopped her right there. “When need to decide where we're going to look for your staff.”

“My father's staff. I'm just borrowing it.” Aveline didn't bother trying to tell Hawke that you couldn't borrow from the dead seeing as you could never actually give it back to them. “And I think I'll search the undercity. Just after I grab Varric...and the Warden.”

“ _What_?” Aveline's cry was ignored as Hawke raced away, searching the crowd for the only dwarf among them.

* * *

 

He felt like an ass. Aedan hadn't expected Hawke to feel much loss over the noble's gifts so he hadn't broken the news of their theft to her lightly. He _should_ have, but he had all but forgotten about her father's damned staff. He still carried around his family sword; he knew how important an object can be when everything else is taken away.

Pushing those thoughts away, he searched the room for his warden. Oh, and for his squire, Edith. Damn, she spoke so little he nearly forgot about her. At any rate he reached Sienna first.

“Where's Cartier?” he asked her, tapping his fingers rapidly against his thigh.

She shrugged in response. “You said we were off-duty. I think he went home with a couple of the serving girls.”

“Damn. Well, you're back on duty. We'll have to go without Cartier...” Aedan paused suddenly and sputtered, “What do you mean 'a _couple_ of the serving girls'?! That suave, Orleasian _bastard_.”

“Yes, well, I wasn't invited either so don't feel too left out.”

Aedan decided to forget that as soon as he heard it. He looked for the Champion and saw her practically dancing on her toes in obvious impatience. “Let's move.”

He greeted her quickly, taking mental stock of his weapons. He wore a sword that was more ceremonial than anything, but it still had bite. He had couple boot knives, too. No shield, though. That was an issue for a later time, though. To Aedan's surprise Edith was already standing with the Champion, poised and ready to go. That saved him the trouble of having to hunt her down. “What's the plan?”

“The guards are taking care of the main gate. They'll stop the thieves if they try for the coast. That leaves the docks and the underground passages.” Hawke didn't seem at all fazed that Aedan and the Guard-Captain were putting her in a position of command. “Aveline,” she turned to the captain. “You and a few of the guards still left head for the docks. Varric and I'll will head for the undercity.”

Varric grunted. “Great. I just bought these boots. I was hoping to have them for at least a week before stomping through mud and shit, but, hey, what can I do?”

Aedan ignored that. “Warden Sienna, go with the Captain. They should have a mage with them.” He smiled wickedly. “Just remember, here we're fighting men, not darkspawn. Try to refrain from tearing off limbs or decapitating them, if you would.”

“As you command, Commander.” She grinned stupidly at him before inching over to join Guard-Captain Aveline.

Edith gave him a glare to remind him that he would not order her away so easily. “Champion, my squire and I will follow you.” Bending down to retrieve one of the knives in his boots, Aedan offered it to the Champion. “Seeing as they took your staff, you are welcome to have this.”

The Champion shook her head, a faint ghost of a smile gracing her features. “I've already got that covered, milord.” Grabbing a hold of the bottom of her dress, the Champion pulled up her skirt well past her mid-thigh to reveal a wicked looking blade strapped to her leg. She unlatched it and dropped her skirts and Aedan suddenly realized he had been staring.

Looking away quickly, he also realized the Champion must do an ungodly amount of walking in order to have such toned calves and thighs.

“Shall we move on before they make off with all my shit?” the Champion asked, hopping on one bare foot while she tried to pull her other shoe off. She gestured to her skirts. “Good thing I'm used to fighting in robes, eh?”

* * *

 

Now barefoot and armed, Hawke set off for the nearest exit. She cursed again the fact that Sebastian was no longer there, having left early to help Elthina with some humble, but very important Maker damned task. At any rate, she still had Varric. And evidently the Warden as well. That had to count for something.

_He looked at your legs._

Some stupid, troublesome part of her subconscious decided to bring _that_ little tidbit up. She needed to focus on getting the only family heirloom she cared about back. What did it matter now if he looked?

_He stared is more like it._

Another, more logical part of her mind cut in. _Of course he did! None of those fancy, Orleasian ladies would have hiked up their skirts like that! Everyone was staring; you only noticed he was because you were staring at him!_

Realizing this logical part was actually right, Hawke felt a lot better about the situation. Granted, now she had to concentrate on tracking down a den of thieves in Darktown, but, hey, that was any normal Tuesday.

Her current team consisted of herself, Varric, the Warden's squire, and the Warden himself. It seemed a good mix. One mage (though, without a staff), one rogue, and two swordsmen from what she could tell. What the Warden's actually abilities other than swordplay were, Hawke had no idea. They'd come to surface soon enough, she was sure. _Hopefully_ when she wasn't too close to him.

Aveline would been fine on her own. She had a warden of her own. She worried about Donnic at the main gates, but Aveline seemed sure of his abilities. Considering how many times she had had to rescue him, Hawke didn't share her confidence.

The quickest entrance to the undercity was in Darktown. There was another in the docking area, but Hawke knew Aveline well enough to know she would take care of that entrance. Hawke led her odd party to Darktown, wondering if it would be worth it to grab Anders along the way. She quickly decided against it, however. The Warden, Aedan, would sense what he was and Hawke didn't care to open that particular can of worms.

The only light in Darktown at night came from small torches or campfires, as well as a few magically lit lanterns. Despite all that, it was still a difficult place to maneuver. She heard Aedan snort behind her and say, “This is just like the bloody Deep Roads. Some vacation this is turning out to be.”

“They told you Kirkwall was an ideal vacation destination?” Varric asked, chuckling. “What else did they sell you?”

“A couple of acres in the Deep Roads,” was the equally sarcastic answer. “Of course, it's all infested with darkspawn and rot, but they knew I was in to that sort of thing.”

Hawke ignored them both, though she did _so_ love eavesdropping on witty party banter. The squire had grabbed her arm and pointed to their left. Tucked away in one of the corners was a man trying to stuff several objects into an overstuffed sack. Every time he fit something new in, something else would fall out. It was a highly aggravating dilemma.

Hawke decided she'd have to help him with that.

“Oooh, what's this?” she asked, creeping up next to him and grabbing the newest item to tumble out of his big bag of surprises. “It's awfully shiny for Darktown.”

“It's mine!” was his stupid and cliché reply.

Snapping her fingers, Hawke called a tiny ball of light into existence. Already he was shirking back from her in fear. Good. “Forged for the Champion of Kirkwall,” she read the engraving on the small dagger he had dropped. “Odd. I thought _I_ was the Champion of Kirkwall. I'm going to be _awfully_ embarrassed if I've been wrong about that this whole time.”

She looked around the thief, searching for any sign of her staff. No such luck. His sack wasn't long enough to hold a staff, anyway.

“Warden?” Hawke motioned for Aedan to move in closer. He had been watching her work and was waiting for a chance to step in. He'd get that now. “This man doesn't have my staff, _but_ ,” she stressed that 'but' heavily, “he may know where the rest of my things are being taken.”

“I agree.” Aedan stepped in next to her, helping to back the thief further into the corner. “I would bet that our man here is supposed to be catching up with his fellow degenerates. _Aren't you?_ ”

The thief was pale, heavy, and stupidly loyal to his friends. “I worked alone.”

Well, that definitely meant he hadn't. Varric told him harshly from the back of the group, “Then you'll _hang_ alone. How does that sound?”

“I believe I can speed this up,” Aedan announced loudly. He moved past Hawke without waiting for her approval or disapproval and shoved the thief face first onto the ground. Taking one of the thief's arms behind his back, Aedan used one boot to put pressure on the limb. Jerking the arm up while pressing downwards, he said threateningly, “Tell us where you're meeting the others before I break your--”

 _Crack_.

“Whoops.” The thief screamed and Aedan released him quickly, letting the now broken arm fall. He simply stared down at the thief guiltily before he met Hawke's amused eyes. “I _may_ have underestimated my strength, though in my defense I'd like to say that darkspawn are harder to break.”

“Whoops?” Hawke repeated his words in disbelief. “Just... _whoops_?”

Aedan shook his head and cursed. He reached for the thief's only remaining arm. “Okay, let's be a little quicker next time. Or else I break this arm, too.”

They got the information they needed. The thieves were using a hidden passageway in Darktown to get to the part of the undercity that led to one of the Lowtown foundries. The plan after that had been to hide in the area underneath the foundry until the hunt for them died down. Then they'd head for the docks for a ship to take them to Antiva, where they could sell their stolen goods.

After hearing his story, Edith then suggested they hogtie the thief and leave him with Tomwise, just in case he was lying about the location of the meeting place. Hawke let the squire take care of that. She was too busy holding her sides as her body heaved with laughter. When Aedan asked her what was so damn funny, all she could choke out was, “ _Whoops_.”

Hawke stopped laughing when it hit her where the thieves were headed.

A man named Quentin had once inhabited that area.

And, for a very short time, her mother had, too.

 


	9. finding what still remains

Our Ghosts Are The Same  
Dragon Age 2  
Chapter 9: Finding What Still Remains

A/N: Annnd we're back. There's quite a bit of fighting in this chapter, I'm glad to say. And to warn you, it's a very Aedan heavy chapter. I'll even it out as we go on, don't worry. As always, I love reading everyone's feedback so feel free to comment or ask questions!

 

The Champion was moving with a new purpose, her laughter dying out as she lead her ragtag team through Darktown and into the passage the thief had mentioned. Aedan wasn't sure of the significance this area underneath the Lowtown foundry had, but it meant something to the Champion. The dwarf, Varric, had stopped looking so sunny when the place was mentioned. Even the Champion's mood had soured and her sentences where short, to the point, and completely void of puns. And though Aedan knew her very little, even he knew that this was odd behavior for the mage.  
“Do you know where we're going?” Aedan whispered to his squire, Edith. As a true Kirkwaller, she would know the town better than he.   
“Where we shouldn't.” Edith, Aedan had soon learned, was highly superstitious. He didn't mind it. Her fears didn't make her paranoid as they did some; they only made her careful. And he liked careful. “A blood mage lived down here.” When Aedan didn't seem properly spooked by that, she added menacingly, “He killed women down here. Chopped them up. And then put them back together, but not always in the right order.”  
Well, that was not normal. Blood magic, Aedan had his own reasons as to why he wasn't that disapproving of that particular school of magic, but murder was in excusable. Always. He was glad that his time in Ferelden hadn't been enough to break him of that way of thinking. There were too many with his kind of power that thought nothing of the deaths of strangers.   
“He's dead now.” The Champion's voice came from the front of their line. There was something wrong about it, her tone. She seemed...off. “Very dead. Burned alive with his ashes scattered to the wind sort of dead. So there's nothing to worry about. Unless you're allergic to human ashes. Then try not to breathe too deeply.”  
Varric barked out a short, worried laugh. Good. Aedan was glad to see that he wasn't the only one to notice something wrong with the Champion.   
It wasn't too long before the narrow, dark tunnels of Darktown opened up to a larger room, entered via a short stairway. From their vantage point, Aedan could see men moving around, some sitting, but all were surrounded by bags and crates filled with the Champion's gifts. The thieves seemed to be unaware of their presence. Pleased by their situation, Aedan turned to suggest to the Champion that they spring an ambush. A flash of blue raced past his face and he whirled around in time to see the Champion sprint by him and jump down in the middle of the thieves' nest.   
Weaponless, the Champion straightened up to her full height and shouted to the thieves quickly surrounding her. “Which one of you assholes has my staff?!”  
Though Aedan was irked that she had thrown away their chance of having the upper hand, he was pleased that the Champion at least gave the thieves a chance to answer her before she slammed her tiny fist into the ground, sending seismic waves in circles around her. The thieves fell back, giving Aedan time enough to shout some instructions to his squire.   
“Edith! Leave as many as you can alive!” When she rolled her eyes Aedan grabbed her arm, giving her a light shake. “We are not the Law. These are not darkspawn. If you can spare a man, do it. But don't put yourself in harm's way. Understand?” They'd talk about the eye rolling later. Well, he would talk. She'd be running. Or doing push-ups. Or whatever grueling exercise he could come up with to fairly punish scoffing at the idea of sparing men.  
“I understand,” Edith replied quickly. “I just thought...I don't think the Champion shares your unique...tactics.”  
He wanted to ask her about that, but the thieves had recovered and were on the attack, throwing themselves at the Champion and her crew with a desperate fervor that shocked even Aedan. The Champion needed back up and soon. She was fending them off with the blade she had hidden up her skirts and with spells, but their sheer numbers threatened to overwhelm her.   
As Aedan leapt down into the fray, Varric called out to him, “I got you covered, Warden!”  
Again with the Warden bit. He had a bloody name. Aedan took out his sword and dealt with the two thieves nearest to them, blocking their attacks and then swiftly disarming them. One of them stepped back while the other charged him, arms raised and screaming. Surprised that even a criminal would act so recklessly, Aedan let him get close, ducking the first swing before he took out the thief's knee with a kick. Aedan dropped him for good by driving the hilt of his sword into the back of the fallen man's head. He was still alive, but he wouldn't be causing anymore trouble.   
Varric took care of the other man, giving Aedan a quick brake. He took this time to look around, try to see if he could spot the Champion's staff. As the Champion's lightning lit up the dark cavern, he found it.  
One of the thieves, upon learning what the Champion was after, was grabbing the aforementioned staff and trying to escape with it. The Champion saw him, too, but she was too preoccupied to do anything about it. She was busy keeping herself from getting stabbed. “Champion, I'm on him!” Aedan yelled to her and she startled, almost getting slashed in the process. His voice was loud, even with the sounds of fighting and screaming. He was too used to having to shout orders to his wardens during battle.  
The staff was getting away from him. Glad that he wasn't wearing his usual heavy armour, Aedan chased after the thief, following him into one of the shady side passages. Halfway into one of these narrow tunnels, another man might have felt out of his element. But Aedan had explored Deep Road caverns that were darker and filled with more frightening things than simple rogues.   
The thief didn't count on Aedan being a warden, he had fully expected to have the advantage in the deepest parts of Darktown. He was waiting for Aedan in the shadows, thinking himself hidden, but Aedan's eyes were accustomed to low levels of light.   
Using the staff as a weapon, the thief lunged at Aedan, forcing him to jump backwards. It wasn't far enough, however. The blunt end of the staff caught Aedan in the stomach, winding him. Now he was regretting his lack of armour, instead of praising it.   
The staff was coming around for another strike. Aedan threw himself against one of the walls, using it to steady himself and catch his breath. Things would be much easier if he could have brought his damn shield to dinner. Right now Cartier was probably in the skirts of several well endowed servant girls, the bastard.   
“Fuck!” The expletive slipped out, causing Aedan to curse again. And he had been doing so well, playing the part of the well mannered noble. The bad habits he had picked up on the road and during his current stint as a warden were taking over. At any rate, he had a bloody good reason for swearing. One of the thief's stabs had caught Aedan upside the head, tearing through his hair and causing blood to slowly drip down his temple.   
Had he been wearing his bracers, Aedan would have been able to block the swing with an arm. Maker, he hated being unprepared. Well, he certainly wouldn't waste blood, especially not his own. Drinking it in, Aedan recovered his strength and waited for the staff's movements to slow down. Once he had an opening he was able to get a hold of the staff's end, yanking it away from the thief and successfully turning the tables.   
This is a good weight, Aedan thought, testing out the staff with a few experimental stabs at the now unarmed thief. It was heavier than he expected, but he recalled that it had been made for the Champion's father, not the Champion herself.  
Suddenly the thief raised his hands in surrender, a move that made Aedan pause and back up a few steps. The thief looked surprised that Aedan hadn't just speared him anyway. “You're not going to kill me?”  
Aedan's brow knitted together. Something was wrong here. “You yielded. I'm not going to strike you down as if you hadn't.”  
“Who are you? Is Hawke picking up even more murdering freaks?” He laughed brokenly.  
Aedan decided not to answer that, which was a smart move because he had no idea how to respond to it. “Get out of here,” he barked, gesturing with the staff. He added on a hunch, “Preferably before the Champion catches up to us.”  
The thief turned and ran, disappearing down the dim tunnel and out of Aedan's sight. Waiting another moment to make sure the thief wouldn't come running back and catch him off guard, Aedan readjusted his grip on the staff and started back the way he came. 

 

He was in no way a stranger to gore or violence, but the scene before him alarmed him regardless. The Champion, her dress ripped and torn and dripping dark bodily fluids, sat atop a crate, her legs dangling over the edge. The bodies of the thieves were scattered around her, all in various states of decay. All dead.  
Quickly looking to his squire for an explanation Aedan found Edith would not meet his eyes.   
“You got it?” The Champion dropped down from her perch and ran over to him. “My staff! Hand it over, hand it over!” she instructed, her hands reaching out to him.  
Not a single one left alive, apart from the one I spared. His jaw set, Aedan was oblivious to the Champion's yammering. Slaying darkspawn was one matter, but this? He recalled his instructions to Edith and realized why she had rolled her eyes. She knew he was wasting his time. The Champion didn't leave survivors.  
He felt a sharp tug and realized the Champion was trying to relieve him of her staff. He glanced down at his white knuckles and forced himself to relax, letting her tug her weapon free. He was angry, furious even, but his duty to Ferelden came first. He had accompanied the Champion on her wild goose chase in order to begin the task of recruiting her as a spy for Ferelden. That and he was deathly bored. Getting angry at her now would only ruin the progress he had already made by retrieving her father's staff.   
“Aw, it has a scratch in it. Bastards.” The Champion was scanning her staff for flaws with a frown on her face. “I guess it gives it character,” she finally said, shrugging nonchalantly. She looked to Aedan. “You're wounded,” she realized, eyes widening. “I have a healer nearby if you need-”  
“I'll attend to it later,” he answered quickly, self-consciously feeling the shallow rip in his hairline. As a reaver, a small bleeding wound like this was actually more of help than a hindrance. “Wardens learn to be good with a needle.”  
She seemed to accept that. “Then I guess I should thank you, Cousland.”  
“You should, Champion.” Maker, he needed to relax. She'd noticed something was wrong soon. Attempting a joke, he added, “But not here. Somewhere else where its sunny and filled with less dead people.”  
“That combination is hard to find in Kirkwall. But, Cousland, I'll see what I can do. And,” she said, leading them all back up to the surface, “stop with the 'Champion' bit. We've fought together now, you can use my name.”  
Varric and Edith were hanging back, stopping every so often to gather Varric's bolts from the corpses. Waste not, want not.  
“I never caught your name,” Aedan admitted with a shrug.   
“Uh,” she looked insulted. “It's Hawke.”  
Aedan found he could fake a grin more easily than he had thought. The unnecessary carnage just down the tunnel was still fresh in his mind. “I heard everyone refers to you by your surname, but I already know a Hawke. Your brother is “Hawke” to me. Can I use your first name?” He waited for her response.  
“That is...” She paused, searching. “That's different, but I'm Marian. And you know Carver?”  
“Ah.” No, he didn't 'know' Carver. Aedan had talked to him briefly after the boy had his joining, though their conversation had been a short one. All he could remember was that Carver was a bit of a git, but he'd probably grow out of it. Or at least he would if Aedan had any say about it. And as his commander he definitely did. “I know of him. And Marian? That is incredibly Ferelden.” When she scowled he added quickly, “Don't look so peeved with me. I never called you 'farm boy'.”  
What? She formed the question silently with her lips before realization sparked in her eyes. “Oh, Maker, that hill giant was you? I never would have...I didn't mean...” Her excuses were so fleeting and desperate that Aedan's smile became more natural in his amusement. “It wasn't an insult. I was a farm girl, once. Well, I never really farmed. I more of got in the way of the people doing the actual farming. But you understand my meaning.”  
“It's of no matter, Hawkling.”   
She stopped dead in the street causing Aedan to bump into her. “What did you call me?”  
He didn't immediately reply. They were out of Darktown and back into the somewhat familiar streets of Lowtown. At any rate Edith would be able to guide them back. While he waited for his squire to catch up, Aedan turned to back Hawke. “To me, you're the 'little' Hawke. Hence, the Hawkling.” Aedan motioned for Edith to come to his side. She trotted away from the dwarf, thanking him for his assistance during the fight once more.   
Hawke was staring at Aedan as if he had suddenly appeared from across the Veil and she was trying to figure out what kind of demon he was. “Hawkling?” she repeated as her friend Varric chuckled, obviously approving of the nickname.  
He grinned. “Now what fun would it be if I called you what everyone else called you?” Bowing to her, he started towards Hightown with Edith. “Goodnight, Champion.” It took all of his willpower to not look back to catch another glimpse of her dumbstruck expression.

 

“I'm the little Hawke?!”   
Varric knew this was coming. Hawke was ranting, gesturing wildly with her newly reunited staff. “I'm the eldest! There's no way I could ever be considered the 'little' Hawke. Granted, I'll give him that Carver is taller, and heavier, and has that gloomy cloud of doom hanging over his head but I'm getting my own statue! Does the Hero of Ferelden have a statue? Uh, let me think....NO.”  
“It's a statue that looks nothing like you,” Varric reminded her.   
“It's still a damn statue. And if you vandalize it, Varric, I swear to the Maker I will go out of my way to make every mission we go on boring and mundane. What did Hawke do today, Varric? Oh, you know, she got some shoe shopping done and rescued a kitten.”  
“Pssh. As if I need actual events to inspire me,” Varric joked and Hawke only smirked in return.  
“Oh, I know you do. What else would you need me for?” Her smile faded a bit. “Um, did you see how Ser I-saved-the-entire-world-so-I-think-I'm-hot-shit looked at me back there? It was like he's never seen dead bodies before.” Raising her hands up in frustration, she continued, “And it's not like I had a choice. One of those guys back there tried to claw my bloody eyes out.”  
He shrugged. “You know how nobles and their sense of honor are. How many did you get anyway?”  
“Only seven. That little squire of his was surprisingly quick.”   
“Seven? That would almost be impressive if I hadn't nailed nine of the bastards to the wall. Literally.”

 

Aedan needed to learn more about Hawke, that was certain. How many mercenaries just like her had he faced down in Ferelden? She was a champion in name, but that was it. She wouldn't be laying down her life for her city any time soon. Her defeat of the Arishok had probably been to her own advantage. Aedan sighed. He shouldn't speculate without more information. He was just still pissed at her for her stunt back in Darktown.  
His long legs carried him up to Hightown, to familiar ground. Edith had adopted a neat little jog in order to keep up with him. Warden Sienna was waiting outside the Comte's mansion for her commander, Aedan was pleased to discover. That saved him the trouble of having to go find her. Wait, who was he kidding? It saved Edith the damn trouble; he would have handed off that chore to his squire in a heartbeat.  
Over all Sienna seemed fine, a little dirty and tired, but unwounded. “How did your search go?” Aedan inquired, crossing his arms in front of his chest and giving her a serious look to let her know he expected an equally serious report.   
She seemed happy enough to jump in, not bothering to censor her expletives as Aedan had come to expect from her. “It was bollocks. We didn't find shit and the whole time those guards were looking at me like I was going to set them all aflame at any minute.” She sighed dreamily. “Oh, I've missed that look. Wardens aren't quite so gullible as templars and normal people. I used to mutter nursery rhymes in Arcanum around the new templars just to watch 'em soil their armor. Good times,” she said, cracking her neck to one side. “Did you find anything other than disappointment?”  
“Marian Hawke resembles a mercenary more than a champion,” he revealed to her with a tight frown. “I've yet to determine if that is for the good or ill of this mission.”  
“Mission?” Sienna echoed needlessly. “We attended the banquet. I thought that was the end of it.” When Aedan didn't say any more she added questioningly, “Sir?”  
He spoke again, but didn't address her questions. “Is Cartier here?”  
“Not yet.”  
“Do your cool down stretches before bed. Tomorrow morning I'm heading to the Chantry.” Sienna grimaced. “Don't worry. You're staying here. And before you celebrate you should that you'll be tasked with guarding the Comtessa and her daughters while they shop.”  
“Oh, for fuck's sake.”  
Aedan thought about reprimanding her, but decided it probably wasn't worth it. Sienna was always going to be foul mouthed. Instead he brushed past her while she saluted him.   
As he and Edith walked inside, he asked her, “Squire, if I wanted to know more about the Champion and her motivations, from a perspective that doesn't idolize her, where would I go?”  
He gave her a moment to consider before he prompted her again. “Knight-Commander Meredith. She was with the Champion when the Qunari attacked. That and she gave Hawke her title.”  
Then it seemed his day was made. The Chantry and then the Circle. Two of my favorite places, he thought sarcastically. After instructing Edith to make sure she stretched and cooled down after the fight, he went inside his own room to do the same. He checked his head in one of the Comte's wall mirrors. It wasn't a deep gash, but he cleaned it and applied a healing ointment to the wound regardless. He even went as far to take a couple of swallows of healing draught for good measure. Once that was through he moved to the floor to stretch out his aching limbs. His ankles were bothering him more than usual. Grimacing, Aedan removed his boots and studied the scarred flesh, reminders of his not so nice first visit to Fort Drakon.   
His stretching was interrupted when the Comte's butler handed him a letter from Vigil's Keep. He half expected it to be from Nathaniel Howe, stating that he didn't need to bother coming back, that the Keep was fine without him. As a result, he was pleasantly surprised to find that the letter contained a detailed progress report and a personal letter from Nathaniel. Aedan skimmed over the letter's contents, allowing himself a small smile when he read that the warden's were inquiring when he was returning. Not because Nathaniel was found lacking as a commander, they simply wanted to know.   
Nathaniel also mentioned that Ohgren was very insulted that Aedan didn't ask him to be Warden-Commander over the Howe. He was so hurt, in fact, that Nathaniel wrote that he told Ohgren that Aedan needed him urgently in Kirkwall. Nathaniel finally added that the dwarf should be arriving roughly around the same time as the letter.  
Aedan sat down on the edge of his mattress and dropped his head into his hands.


	10. taint, taint, taint

Our Ghosts Are The Same  
Dragon Age 2  
Chapter 10: Taint, Taint, Taint

Hawke fell asleep in her chair, her father's staff uncomfortably positioned across her lap. Rebel, her mabari, was running in circles around her, chasing after dust or his own tail or whatever. His sudden spout of barking woke her and she jerked her head up so fast she felt as if she had just broken her own neck. Not the way she wanted to go out.   
Rubbing her neck and groaning, Hawke headed for her doorway which was being filled up by the last person she wanted to see; the Seneschal.  
“Who let Bran in?” she moaned, looking around for someone to pin this on. “Maker, why are you here? Unless you need something decimated, like that awful wardrobe of yours, you should leave. I'd walk you home but...I really don't want to.”  
He didn't seem appreciative of her fashion advice. “Where were you all night?! You ran off, leaving your guests! Do you have any idea how rude that was?”  
“No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me.” She sighed, knowing Bran's visit was going to be more unpleasant than usual.   
“It was inexcusable. Kirkwall wasted precious funds on that banquet, funds we could have spent on reconstruction!”  
Then why was he yelling at her? She never asked for that damn banquet. She didn't even want to go. “Right... I see why you're upset. Why don't I show you to the door and you can spend a night at the Blooming Rose, on me. Just put it on my tab.” Hawke started nudging him towards her door.  
“You're mother would have been ashamed of you.”   
She froze, utterly taken aback. Would even Bran stoop so low? The Seneschal turned to face her, preparing for another scolding, and suddenly his head whipped back. Hawke was vaguely aware of a throbbing pain across her knuckles before she connected the dots. Maker, she had just punched the Seneschal in the face.   
Sensing a fight, Rebel stopped playing and charged at Bran, causing the man to swallow whatever curse he had been ready to throw at Hawke and run out her door instead.   
Well, it looked like Hawke would be getting a visit from Aveline tonight. Whether she wanted it or not.

Ohgren was coming to Kirkwall? Aedan loved that drunken, crazy bastard, but he was not who Aedan wanted on a mission like this. It was too political. If Ohgren didn't have a darkspawn head to decapitate the dwarf would lose what was left of his mind. Aedan thought about it all the way to breakfast. Seriously, why couldn't Nathaniel send Sigrun instead?   
It was early, really early in the morning. The Comte and Comtessa were still asleep and Aedan tried not to wake up the servants while he made breakfast. Sienna and Cartier were not happy about the early hour. Both of them were muttering curses as they sat down at the Comte's dining table and Aedan served them porridge, eggs, and whatever fruit was available. He had only been meaning to cook for himself, but every time he entered a kitchen he emerged with an entire bloody banquet.   
Oh, Maker, the banquet. That night certainly hadn't gone down how he had planned. Running after thieves, slaughtering said thieves... At least they had obtained their mission goal; retrieve the Champion's weapon. Even though last night she had shown that she had no qualms about jumping into a fight completely empty handed. She was more of a beserker than a mage. She and Ohgren would get along fantastic...if Aedan had any intention of letting the two ever meet. And he did not.  
Edith ate her breakfast in silence, staring at Cartier who was sleeping on the table with his head in his arms. “Someone's fucking hungover,” Sienna observed drily. Edith nodded her assent.   
“I noticed,” Aedan replied, going into the kitchen and retrieving one of the Comtessa's largest metal pots. When he returned he unceremoniously dumped the pot, letting it clatter loudly to the floor. Cartier's head snapped up from the table at the sound. “Commander, please-”  
“Are you hungover, Cartier?” Aedan asked him icily. When one of the Comte's servants went to pick up the fallen pot, Aedan stopped him saying, “No, no. I dropped it. I'll get it.” Aedan picked the pot up once more, held it out at chest length, and then let it slip from his fingers. “Damn. That was completely unintentional.”  
“All right, Commander, you made you're point.” Cartier sat up, grumbling. It was amazing how he could make Commander sound like 'you little shit'. Aedan might have been his commanding officer, but Cartier had quite a few years on him.  
“Eat fast. I want to make it to the Chantry before the crowd.” Aedan quickly finished off his plate and used water from his waterskin to wash it down.  
Sienna was incredulous. “The Chantry has a crowd?”

Aveline arrived in the morning, as Hawke had expected, flanked by a few of her guards. Hawke glanced up at her from over her toast. Smirking, she asked, “How's Bran's face doing? He's rather pretty for a man, but not so much with a broken nose, I bet.”  
“Hawke,” Aveline sighed heavily.   
“If it makes you feel better I made sure he really deserved it,” Hawke offered with a disappearing grin.   
Aveline took away her plate of toast, frowning. “That doesn't make it any better. The Seneschal is demanding you be punished. And I can't really argue with him, Hawke. You did attack him.” Aveline looked apologetic, but Hawke simply shrugged it off.  
“It's fine, Aveline. I'll just sit in your jail until someone bails me out.” She paused, suddenly second guessing her brilliant plan. Her companions weren't exactly known for visiting her just for shits and giggles. “Nah, it'll work. One of them will need something eventually.” She had her money on Varric being the one to come and bail her out. He had impeccably good timing.  
“Then you know the drill.”  
Sadly she did. Hawke held out both of her arms and one of the new guards tied her wrists together. She sighed, “Lead the way, Aveline. Preferably before the Chantry crowd wakes up and sees me.”

The scene Aedan, Cartier, and Edith saw on the way to the Chantry was odd, though not surprising. The Champion was partially bound and was being escorted by a few of the city guards, the Captain of the Guard among them. He considered whether or not he should get involved. Cartier was asleep on his feet and Edith, honestly Aedan didn't know what was up with her. She was too bloody quiet for him to get a reading on her.   
Shit. The Champion had caught him staring. She raised her bound wrists and wiggled her fingers at him. He couldn't just stand there now. Grimacing because he genuinely didn't want to be involved in whatever mess the Champion had got herself into (maybe those thieves had had families that missed them?), Aedan walked over to her and her keepers. Because he was dressed as a noble today, the guards stopped at his approach while their captain scowled at them for halting without orders.  
“Hawkling,” he greeted her, remembering at the last minute the name he had given her the previous night. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”  
“Oh.” Hawke looked around at her escorts and then down at her tied wrists. “Well, I could see how it might look that way to the untrained eye. But, nah, I'm fine. No templars, no problems.”  
Aedan was far from convinced. “This isn't about last night, is it?” He looked to Aveline for answers. “If so, I'm afraid I was involved as well. If restitution is called for, I'll have to join the Champion.” He went to go on to say that his squire should be pardoned since she was following his orders, but Hawke interrupted him.  
Wide eyed, she laughed, “You punched the Seneschal in the face, too?!”  
“What? No!” Aedan stared at her. His first seneschal at Vigil's Keep had laid down his life for him. Evidently Hawke had not been so lucky with seneschals.  
“Damn. Someone should hit Bran again.” It took Hawke a moment to realize that Aveline had been less than pleased by that statement. “Oh. No, Aveline, I meant I am so sorry for what I've done and I'm ready to reenter society as a solid, reformed citizen.”  
“Shut it, Hawke. We both know when you're lying.” Guard-Captain Aveline was reprimanding the Champion, but it was done in the most loving way possible. “If you'll excuse us, my lord.”  
Aedan nodded to them all as they headed on for the Keep. Hawke would probably need bailing out, but he was not sure he could justify using the Crown's gold for that. At least not until he learned a little more about Hawke to be more certain of her character.   
It would be easier, he supposed, to recruit her as an agent if her moral compass was wayward. But for some reason he didn't want that to be the case.  
He'd have plenty of time to contemplate why while he was in the Chantry. Nodding to his companions, Aedan led the way up the steep steps of the Chantry and went inside the first confessional he saw. Cartier had straightened up and knelt down in front of Andraste, fervently praying. Orleasians, as a rule, took their religion very seriously. Edith opted for waiting outside the confessional in order to guard her commander. Aedan only hoped she wasn't one for eavesdropping.  
After a few minutes of waiting, a sister entered the other side of the confessional, her face obscured by the curtain between them. She started the rite and Aedan efficiently listed his sins, not bothering to add any unnecessary overtones of remorse to his words.  
“I confess that I have been judgmental of a woman I know little about. I have also recently committed acts of violence against my fellow man, though I was acting in self defense and I personally ended no lives.” He paused for a moment, reminiscing, before he informed her that he had nothing more to confess. She listened and gave him his penance; he had to recite sixteen verses from the Chant of Light. He frowned and bowed out. The sister at Vigil's Keep usually only gave him three verses to recite, knowing that he always had a lot to get done. He received no such courtesy in Kirkwall.   
Trying not to think about all the time he was wasting, Aedan knelt down next to Cartier in front of Andraste's statue. He personally was unused to such unnecessary splendor and decoration in the Chantry's he had visited in Ferelden. Back home the Chantry was simple, carved from Ferelden wood, and filled with more people than it could properly care for. In Kirkwall everything was cut from stone and every crevice and corner boasted of the Chantry's wealth. Cartier probably felt right at home. Kirkwall was more similar to Orleais than it was to Ferelden.  
Edith quickly made her way to her male companions, bending in half so she could whisper discreetly in Aedan's ear. “Ser,” she began in hushed tones. “The Knight-Commander has arrived for her morning prayers.”   
“So mote it be.” Forget it, he decided ruthlessly. If I can make it through a meeting with this templar that'll be penance enough. For someone who had no magical talent whatsoever Aedan still did not get along with templars. Ah, perhaps that was unfair. He rarely got along with anybody.  
Aedan sat behind the pew Meredith was occupying and waited for her to finish her morning prayers before he approached her.

“Isabela!” Hawke grinned at the pirate as she was pushed into the same jail cell Isabela was sitting cross legged in. Isabela let loose with a pleased, deep throated chuckle as Hawke had her bounds removed by one of the overworked jailers. “What are you in for?” she asked as Aveline began filling out the paperwork for her arrest.   
“Public intoxication,” Isabela shrugged.  
Hawke nodded sagely. “That was me last week. This time I almost broke my fist on Seneschal Bran.”  
“You fisted Bran?!”  
“Maker, no!” Hawke's color drained as Isabela fell over and laughed madly. “Don't say it like that! What is wrong with you?”  
Aveline snorted dryly, “Well, she's in jail. That's one thing.”  
“Hey, I'm in jail, too!”  
“And there you have it.”  
Isabela shot another insult at Aveline and Hawke lied down on the dusty floor, trying to drown them both out. It was awhile before Hawke realized Aveline had stopped insulting Isabela and was now trying to talk to her.  
“Hawke. Hawke!” Aveline was resorting to her exasperated hawke-i-swear-if-you-make-one-more-pun voice. “Where did you end up last night, anyway? We never rendezvoused.”  
Hawke squirmed and tried to sound as calm as she could. “The foundry.”  
“Oh, Kitten,” Isabela began, but Hawke shook her head fervently.   
“I'm fine, both of you,” she added, looking to Aveline as well. “Granted, it wasn't pleasant, but there really isn't a pleasant place left anywhere in Kirkwall.” When Aveline didn't seem convinced Hawke added, “Oh, can you send in one of the pretty guards to watch us this time? The last one you sent looked like he ran face first into a brick wall. Bert, was it? Yeah, don't send Bert.”  
Aveline shook her head. “If you want to avoid the subject, fine. Have it your way. But I'm sending in Bert to guard you.”  
Hawke and Isabela both groaned. 

“Knight-Commander,” Aedan began once he was sure Meredith was finished with her prayers. Her blonde head turned round so she could scrutinize him fully in the bright, Chantry light. Aedan noted that while her blue eyes were bright and clear, there was quite a bit of grey creeping into her hairline. “If I could have a moment of your time, I would be much obliged.”  
She seemed hesitant, irked even, but she wouldn't say so. Aedan wondered if perhaps his reputation proceeded him. Not the slaying the Arch-demon bit, the recruiting Circle mages for grey wardens bit. That was the part the templars usually focused on.   
Meredith nodded once. “I've been made aware of your presence, Commander,” she told him, standing so she could lead him to one of the Chantry's small, private rooms. Once they were inside she added briskly, “And I have to inform you that none of our current Circle mages are fit to be Grey Wardens. They must be watched closely and I-”   
He cut her off right there. “Commander Meredith, I'm not here for recruits.” Though, he continued silently, that would make this trip less of a waste. “This is more of a request for information, ma'am.”   
This seemed to surprise her, though Meredith still kept her suspicions. “What would you like to know?” Even if she didn't care to talk to him, and Aedan didn't blame her for that (he had killed a few templars in his time), she was still in the Chantry and had to be polite under the Maker's direct gaze.   
“The Champion,” he answered, finding a spot along the wall to lean against. “She's an apostate, you must have received various reports concerning her. What do you have to say about her character?”  
“Her character? The Champion is similar to most apostates. You'll have to be more specific in your inquiries.”  
Aedan knew he didn't have much time before Meredith grew irritated and made some excuse to leave. “Why did she fight the Arishok? Was it for her city? Was she paid to do it?” He crossed his arms and waited for the commander to respond.  
Meredith's eyes flashed. “I didn't give her a choice.”  
Oh. That was interesting. “I was under the impression that apostates didn't take orders from templars.”  
To his surprise Meredith actually laughed at that. It was a quick, unpracticed chuckle but it was a laugh all the same. “That's what the Champion said when I enlisted her help. I more or less had to threaten her to join our ranks against the Qunari. Hawke may not be overtly loyal to Kirkwall, but she was fiercely loyal to her family. And when her family died out her loyalty switched to her ragtag team of companions.”  
Aedan prompted her, “So what you're saying is...”  
“Hawke is not loyal to her city or homeland. She's loyal to people. A dangerous trait for an apostate to have,” Meredith finished. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a Circle to oversee.”  
He bowed to her as she walked out. Hawke's sense of duty was not as idealistic as his own. She protected her own family and would never sacrifice them for the “greater good”. It was a way of thinking entirely different from his own. He had left his family to die, after all, all in the pretense of “it was best for Ferelden”.   
So Hawke was not completely loyal to Kirkwall or Ferelden. It would perhaps be possible to pay her for her services as a spy or figure out some other reward. Then he could get back to Amaranthine and actually accomplish something useful.   
As Aedan found Edith and Cartier and lead them out, he caught sight of something that might help him be of service here. The Chanter's board.  
Most of the Chantry's tasks were mundane, but Aedan studied the Chanter's board for any tasks that were suited for his current team regardless. There were a lot of posters for missing people, people that vanished during the Qunari's attack. As he was new to the city and to it's people, Aedan had to admit that he was currently unable to aid that lost cause. But there had to be something...  
“Darkspawn!” he shouted a little too gleefully, shoving a notice under Cartier's face. “Spotted near the Dalish encampment.” Even Edith startled at his sudden outburst.   
Cartier was frowning, not a good look for him. “And yet you sound excited, Commander.”   
“Not excited,” Aedan argued, rolling the notice up and placing it in his pack. “Eager to serve.”  
“Not to be insubordinate, Commander, but there's something wrong with you.”

“You're bail has been paid,” one of Aveline's less enthusiastic guards deadpanned, opening up Hawke's jail cell door. Isabela hopped up as well, but the guard growled, “Not you,” and slammed the door shut. Hawke waved a hand nonchalantly at the still caged pirate. “Relax, I'll get whoever paid mine to pay yours. I'm very persuasive.”  
Isabela saluted her as Hawke left to thank her generous sponsor. She had guessed Varric would be the one to get her out, or perhaps it would be Sebastian paying her way with a Chantry collection made in her name. But, no, surprisingly she was wrong. It was no one she had ever even seen before.  
Hawke cocked her head to the side, saying, “Uh, hello, dwarf I'm fairly certain I don't know.”  
The red-headed dwarf stared up at her in confusion. It was a good five minutes before he actually spoke, having realized his mistake, “You're not the Warden.”  
“Noooo,” Hawke sang, rocking back on her heels. “I am not.”  
“Sodding liars,” the dwarf snarled under his breath. “They told me the Champion was in town and the Warden was in jail...Wait, scratch that. I may have reversed that.” The dwarf scowled again, producing a flask from somewhere underneath his impressive beard. “It's probably this damn fruity Antivan liquor. It makes me foggy.” As he said that he took another long drink before he offered some to Hawke. She declined it quickly.  
Hawke was beginning to put the puzzle pieces together. Well, some of them. “You thought the Warden was in jail so you came to bail him out? What is he to you?”  
“What? Can't you tell?” The dwarf seemed disappointed. “I'm a Grey Warden, girl, and the boy's my commander.” When she didn't at once realize who he was, he growled, “I'm Ohgren. I was there when the Arch-demon fell? Ah, the pretty girls only ever remember Cousland, damn him.”  
“One of the Heroes of Ferelden, eh?” She brightened immensely. “That's my homeland. I daresay the only polite thing for me to do is buy you a drink.”  
Ohgren shrugged. “I don't know about polite, but I could use another drink.”   
Hawke doubted that. What the dwarf probably needed was a cold bath, but this was the quickest way to get Isabela out. “Right. And here's a pretty girl ready to pay for it. The only thing better would be having two pretty girls ready to buy drinks for a war hero.”  
“I'm listening.”

Isabela clinked her mug against Hawke's, grinning mischievously. “You still manage to surprise me, Hawke,” she laughed, eying the dwarf that was three drinks ahead of them and still going strong. “You just got bailed out by one of the maniacs that slayed the Arch-demon. How do you do it?”  
Hawke acted like she was seriously considering the question. “It helps to be ridiculously charismatic. It helps a lot.”  
“I'm sure,” Isabela purred and they both turned to watch the dwarf drink.  
Hawke passed her pint over to him and asked, “So...you're a Grey Warden, then? And you know Cousland? Please tell us you know really embarrassing stories about him. Please.”  
Ohgren opened his mouth to reply before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Champion, there's a creepy elf standing behind you all silent like. It's weirding me out. And it takes a lot to creep me out. You ever see a brood mother? Ugliest sodding thing you'll ever see.”  
Sadly Hawke knew exactly who he was talking about. She turned her head and smiled weakly. “Fenris! You could have said something, you know. I know I have a thing for tall, dark, and creepy but you don't need to impress me anymore. I've seen it all.”  
From Fenris's sudden blush Hawke fretted that she might have gone too far. But he decided to ignore her joke and said briskly, “There have been reports of Tevinter slavers near the mountains. I doubt it's Danarius but I'd like to take care of them regardless.”  
Hawke nodded too quickly. “Yeah, we can take care of that. If it's in the mountains I'd like to take Merrill along.” When he frowned Hawke reminded him, “She knows that area best. And I think Varric's upstairs if you want to grab him while we're here.” Hawke turned to Isabela to invite her along and found her chair empty. “Lazy, wannabe pirate,” Hawke muttered crossly.  
There was a loud burp and Hawke suddenly remembered that Ohgren was still there. She grinned madly and asked him as sweet as she could, “How'd you like to decapitate some slavers, Ohgren?”  
“You had me at 'decapitate'.”

“I miss our horses,” Cartier complained for what Sienna pointed out was the fifth time. The Orleasian narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, right. This is nothing for you. You're wearing robes, not a ton of armour like the rest of us.” He gestured to himself, Aedan, and Edith in one grand gesture.   
Aedan kept up the pace, but spared a glance back at Cartier. “Don't worry, Cartier, once we get back to the city we'll find you some robes of your own. Or a nice, new dress. As long as you still kill darkspawn I don't care what you wear.”  
Sienna brightened at that. “Then can I wear my hair down? 'Cause this fucking bun gives me a headache.”  
“No.” Aedan was strict about that. “If I die because you couldn't watch my back because your hair was in your face I will haunt you all.”  
She surprisingly didn't complain. She was most likely just glad to be freed from guard duty with the Comtessa's daughters. They walked onward, under the blazing hot sun for another hour. Aedan had decided to go around the Dalish camp, instead of through it. He was on good terms with the Dalish in Ferelden, but he didn't care to test the patience of Kirkwall's free elves.   
“Commander,” Cartier's voice was a harsh whisper, and Aedan already knew what he was   
going to tell him.  
“Darkspawn. I sense them, too.” Aedan stepped towards the rocky mountains, searching the jagged rock for an opening. They walked along the mountainside for a bit more before Aedan found a narrow split in the mountain. It was wide enough for a man to fit through, only one at a time. A foul stench originated from the inside and he heard Edith behind him cough violently. There were darkspawn inside for certain, as well as quite a few corpses. He briefly considered which one he should send in first before he decided on himself.   
“I don't hear any movement inside,” Sienna quietly pointed out. Cartier nodded his agreement.  
Edith kept back and added, “Whatever's in there might already be dead.”  
Aedan shrugged. “Possibly. I'll go ahead and check it out. Wait ten minutes and then follow. Sienna,” he pointed to the mage, “you lead. Put up one of your barrier spells first.”  
“Right, Commander.”  
Aedan took one last breath of fresh, clean air before he inched his way inside. His armour caught on some of the rock but he managed to slip through. The narrow passage way opened up to a large cavern that was lit by lyrium veins all along the walls and ceiling. It was a perfect place to stash stolen goods and it seemed that that was what it had been used for.   
A good number of human bodies lay dead at the front, their wounds definitely from common darkspawn forged weapons. Their bodies also held signs of taint, but it seemed they had been killed before the taint had changed them. Further inside were cages, most filled with dead or dying elves. If Aedan had to guess slavers had used this cavern to hide from the authorities until they were attacked from darkspawn from the outside. It was a slaughter. A few of the darkspwan had made it inside before they were cut down. Any darkspawn or humans or even elves that had survived the onslaught were long gone and probably not coming back.   
Aedan sighed. This would be a simple clean up mission, nothing more. The elves that had survived in their cages moved slowly and unnaturally. The taint had reached them too quickly for any chance of a cure. And the Joining was not an option. Even if they were healthy enough to survive it, he didn't have the materials nearby to make the Joining possible. The most they could do was put the infected out of their misery before they completely changed.   
It was not a task he looked forward to completing, even less so when Aedan heard the cry of a newborn child pierce the musky cavern air.  
“Shit,” he breathed, scrambling towards the sound. It seemed to be coming from one of the cages. “Sienna! Get in here!” he yelled, peering into one of the cages. This one only held one adult elf inside. The taint had gotten to him fully and he-it moved forward when it noticed Aedan's presence. Now that the elf was close Aedan could see it was wearing some sort of sling with a pouch in the front. And lying in that pocket against the elf's chest was the babe.   
With every movement of the tainted father, the babe cried anew. Aedan could hear Sienna shouting outside, saying that darkspawn had found them and he knew he wouldn't get any help from his comrades.   
Gritting his teeth, Aedan plunged his arms between the bars, trying to grab the babe before it's tainted parent decided it would make a nice appetizer before trying to kill a warden. Aedan caught the sling with one hand, but the former elf found the other and clamped down on it with his broken teeth. “Maker's balls,” Aedan swore, attempting to pull his hand out of it's jaw. When that failed he released the sling and went for the dagger on his hip. Without another thought, Aedan jabbed the blade into the tainted elf's skull and worked it in until his other hand was freed.  
Black blood splatted and dripped down onto the child, but Aedan managed to slip the baby out of the pouch and cage and into his own arms.   
There was a chance that the child could be tainted, too, but Aedan shoved that idea away. The babe's sobs were not the dark gargle of darkspawn. It sounded lonely.   
Aedan brought him out into the open air, prepared for a fight. Fortunately, Sienna and the rest of them had taken care of whatever 'spawn that had found them. Sienna herself stood atop one of the kills, grinning triumphantly. “Commander, look! I roasted this fucker alive.” She continued to smile until Edith asked, her eyebrows raised in concern, “Is that a baby?”  
As Aedan nodded Sienna whistled appreciatively. “Shit, Commander. I knew you were quick but this is fucking unreal.”  
Cartier's eyes rolled at her behavior. “It's not his,” he hissed and then asked louder, “Orders, Commander?”  
Aedan was wiping the babe clean of blood with his own handkerchief. “Edith, I need a waterskin now. Food later. I think he's old enough to have solid food.”  
Sienna danced forward. “It's a he?” When Aedan removed the babe's soiled diaper she nodded again. “Yep, that leaves nothing to the imagination. Do the Tevinters not practice circumcision? Congratulations, it's a boy!”  
Aedan waved her away. “There are bodies in there. The slavers are mostly dead, but some of the elves are alive and too tainted to save.” Sienna stopped smiling. “The slavers are to be burned where they lie. Sienna, you can take care of that. The rest are to be put down and then we'll, ah, make them a funeral pyre.”  
“Cut down?” Edith repeated dumbly.   
Aedan's eyes darkened. “I told you I didn't do chivalrous knight's work. Go with Cartier. He'll tell you what to do.” He looked down, avoiding her gaze and wrapping the child up in one of his spare shirts. The babe took to his waterskin immediately. It was a miracle that he hadn't already starved. By the time Cartier, Sienna, and Edith had the bodies ready to be burned Aedan was feeding the babe bits of dried meat.   
Aedan watched them work. “Since these are elves and we don't know which religion they followed, if any, just cover all bases. Cartier, give them an Andrastian funeral rite. Sienna, give them the Dalish version.”  
“And what if they followed the Qun?” Cartier asked out of curiosity. “What do we do then?” He was quickly elbowed by Sienna.   
“Are you trying to get us more work? I already had to memorize two damn funeral rites. Let's not add a third.”  
“The Qunari have no special rite for the dead bodies themselves. Just stick to the Chantry rite and the Dalish rite for now.”  
Sienna sighed and began the Dalish ritual in a monotone. “...and fuck, I can't remember the rest.” Sienna pouted for a moment before she brightened and tried to continue.  
Cartier stared at her, horrified, before he cut her off. “Woah, woah, you need to start over. You can't just blaspheme in the middle of a funeral rite and then keep going! Have some respect for the dead. Do it over again.”  
“Is that an order?” Her eyes narrowed dangerously.  
Cartier answered without missing a beat, “Uh, I think you should do it regardless. Common decency and all that.”   
She was indignant. “You're not my superior. You don't get to order me about.”  
“Commander!”   
Aedan didn't even turn around to look at them. Their bickering was upsetting the child. Bouncing the babe in his arms, Aedan called over his shoulder, “Cartier is your superior, Sienna. You don't get to say 'fuck' in the middle of a funeral and then get to be in charge.” He wasn't bothered about her lack of respect for the dead. As a Circle mage she was probably deadened to it. Mages didn't get funerals; they just vanished.   
“Well, fuck.”  
Instead of chastising her for her language, Aedan was prepared to repeat her eloquent phrasing. Because coming over a sandy hill was Hawke, followed closely by a few of her companions. And there was no doubting where their company was headed...straight for Aedan and his subordinates, all surrounded by a large and incriminating amount of carnage. 

Ohgren, who had previously been complaining about the unnecessary amount of walking, suddenly fell silent. Hawke glanced back at him in surprise. “Darkspawn got your tongue, warden?”  
“You could say that,” he answered too loudly, just a little bit tipsy. There was a odd glint in the dwarf's blue eyes, shadowed by his thick, blood-red eyebrows. “There's a large group of the nug humpers up ahead. Can't say if they're dead or alive, though.”  
“Then what good are you?” Fenris snorted contemptuously. Hawke, Varric, and Merrill ignored his snide remarks, being so used to them, but Ohgren was going to damned if he was going to let the skinny elf sass him without consequence.   
“Hold on, I'm sensing something else nearby. Yeah, yeah. There's an snarky little elf somewhere in the vicinity. Someone should go and kick his scrawny ass. I volunteer.”   
Hawke snickered, but didn't take him up on his offer. As they were coming over a hill she caught sight of four standing bodies and a large, smoking pile of something that smelled awful. She gestured to her companions to hold. “We've got company.”


	11. purebloods and mongrels

Our Ghosts Are The Same  
Dragon Age 2  
Chapter 11: Pure Bloods and Mongrels 

A/N: This is a shorter chapter but with work and all I figured I'd better get something down quick before I get swamped again.

Aedan was less than pleased to see Marian Hawke, snarky and seemingly carefree Champion of Kirkwall, parade over a hill and right into his team's current position. Especially considering the incredible amount of carnage that was surrounding the lot of them. Things could easily escalate if the situation wasn't properly explained or if rash suppositions were made. In fact, Aedan did not think his predicament could get any worse until he saw who one of the dwarves at Hawke's side were.  
As the Champion and her group quickly approached Aedan sputtered, “Ohgren?” Aedan's cold eyes swung from the dwarf in question and stared into the Champion's own. “What are you doing with Ohgren?”  
She seemed even more surprised at his presence than he was of hers. “What are you doing with a baby?”  
“Hello, Commander!” Ohgren triumphantly waved at Aedan as if he had planned their chance meeting from the beginning. “Thought I'd find you here.”  
Aedan wasn't the only one skeptic of the truth of that remark. Cartier said with a single raised brow, “You thought we'd be in the middle of Kirkwall's mountain range?”  
Ohgren grinned at that. “No, knowing Cousland I figured you'd be surrounded by dead darkspawn. And it seems I was right.” He smirked haughtily at his commander who simply rolled his eyes.   
“Yes, but that hardly explains why you're with the Champion,” Aedan searched for an answer in Marian but she had some questions of her own.  
She seemed less cheerful now, wearing a stern glare Aedan had never seen from her before now. “You're burning bodies. We could smell it a mile from here.” She added, her eyes narrowing. “I was at Lothering when it fell. I know the scent.”  
Aedan responded too quickly and a little too forcefully, “Do you recall the scent of darkspawn? Because that's what happened here. We're simply the clean up crew and bearer of bad news. Sienna,” he barked to the mage behind him. “Report.”  
“Some fucking darkspawn came and...uh,” Sienna began before she suddenly flushed and then restarted. “I mean, a medium sized group of slavers and their, uh, cargo,” she winced, “were stashed in an opening in the mountain. Their only exit was seemingly blocked by darkspawn who stormed their cavern and slaughtered all they could reach. Only a few elves survived in their cages, but they were tainted beyond help when we reached them.”  
Cartier, Edith, and even Aedan stared at her for a long time. Cartier muttered in mock awe, “I didn't know you knew that many words, aside from 'fuck', 'damn' and what had become my personal favorite 'nug-shit on a cracker'.”  
Irked at their ridiculous behavior, Aedan turned his attention back to Hawke, where it belonged. “They weren't people anymore. We gave them mercy,” he explained slowly and with no amount of pleasure.   
She didn't argue. Instead she looked at the babe in his arms and asked quietly, “Are you going to provide that same mercy for the child?”  
Unconsciously, his arms tightened around the squirming bundle. “It takes, generally, seven days for the taint to corrupt a normal man. As of now the child appears to be unaffected.” He didn't want to state in words what would have to be done if that changed.   
“I see.” Hawke didn't seemed appeased, but she only asked one more question. “Was there no other way?”  
“No.” There was no hesitation now, where years ago, when he was warden recruit fresh from the Joining, his answer might have been very different. Maker, this wasn't how he wanted to meet her next. What he had wanted was to sit down with Hawke over a pint and delicately and tactfully tell her about the King's proposition. Having her see him in a situation where his morality was in question was not beneficial in any way to his cause.   
Hawke didn't stay long after that. There wasn't much for her to do. Most everyone was already halfway to ash.   
Ohgren thanked her for the drinks, which made Aedan cringed. Hopefully Ohgren hadn't started talking while Hawke was buying him drinks. There was a lot about him that Aedan didn't need Hawke knowing. Like the first time Morrigan had shape-shifted into a spider in front of him and he had tripped over himself in his haste to run away. That was not an anecdote he wanted Ohgren sharing with anyone.  
And, really, asking someone if they'd still be attracted to you if you were a giant spider and then transforming into said eight-legged creature from the Void is just not okay.  
Edith stepped up next to him, side-eying the dwarf with obvious disdain. “How do you plan on telling the Comtessa you're bringing an elven child into her home?”  
Oh, damn it all. “Very carefully.”

“Well, that was disappointing.” Hawke kicked at sand with her boots in a lame attempt to amuse herself. “At least we know it wasn't Danarius,” she told Fenris and shrugged.  
He didn't share her half-assed enthusiasm. “That doesn't make any of them any less dead,” he pointed out dryly. He then looked as if he was afraid he had offended but Hawke simply shrugged again.  
“No, no, that's true.” This time she kicked at a rock and sent it flying down the sandy dune below them. “Too bad we weren't a bit quicker. I could have had an elven baby.” Her gaze darkened and she said words meant only for herself and not for Fenris to ever hear. “There went my only real chance.”  
But of course he heard.

“Milord, we should inform the Comtessa of our new...guest,” Edith finished uncertainly. Aedan just waved her away, his attention focused on the small body sitting on one of his pillows.  
“Later. I'll tell her later. Oh, and Cartier, can you go down to the kitchens and get something for the tyke to eat? I know I worded that as a request but it was really wasn't.” As Cartier rolled his eyes and stomped downstairs, the child started rolling around on his stomach and Aedan had to keep him from falling off the large bed. “Slow down, pup,” he laughed while scooping him up in his arms.   
Edith remained where she was, watching her superior for a bit before speaking her mind. “Milord, the Comtess will find out. If he cries-”  
“You won't cry, will you, pup?” As Aedan said that Cartier returned with a plate of cold meats and fruit. The child saw it and whined, his tiny arms reaching for the plate and pushing against Aedan's chest.   
The commander frowned. “You little shit,” he said in the most caring way possible.   
Ohgren of all people had a solution. “He just needs a little nip of whiskey, is all.”   
“You keep that dwarven swill away from him.” Aedan stood, handed the babe off to Edith. “And, no, before you ask, Ohgren, we're not naming him after you.” Straightening his shoulders, Aedan left to speak with the Comte and Comtessa. And also to find a nursemaid for the babe. And later to find a name for the babe.  
At least he'd be busy.

The Comte wasn't pleased with the new arrangement, but he obviously couldn't figure out a polite way to decline because he allowed it. One of the elven servants had a sister who was a nanny and so Aedan sent Edith and Cartier down to Lowtown to hire her and bring her back. Sienna amused the child with small, probably not dangerous, glowing orbs that bounced off the walls and ceiling.  
Ohgren was helping him pick out a name.   
“We are not naming him Darkspawn Bait.”  
“Half-pint?”  
“No.”  
“Ohgren, Junior?”  
“I've said 'no' to that twelve times.”  
“Pointy?”  
“That's racist. Why am I even letting you help again?”  
Sienna hummed as she summoned another orb. “I think Carlin would be nice.”  
Aedan threw up his hands. “If it gets Ohgren to stop talking, Carlin it is.”  
“Ohgren, Junior-”  
“I've said 'no' thirteen times!”

Moira bounded ahead of him, only stopping every so often to sniff something or someone interesting. Most of the shop vendors in Hightown seemed wary of his pet, running unleashed around the marketplace, but Aedan paid them no heed. He could always play the noble card and start listing off titles until they stopped complaining. Or his favorite, the “I didn't kill the Arch-demon to put up with this shit”. He admittedly used that one too often.  
Moira had been cooped up in the Comte's home, growing fat on the servant's treats. It was time for a little exercise. For both of them, Aedan had to admit, patting his own abdomen. This rich, Orleasian food would be the death of him. Though the food was too rich for his tastes, Carlin was loving it. He was probably back at the Comte's place being fed by his new nursemaid right now.  
His pure-blood mabari hound charged her way around one of the tall, stone corners of Hightown, causing Aedan to lose sight of her for a moment. He quickened his pace, knowing Edith and Ohgren who were trailing behind him would do the same. He rounded the corner, searched for his dog and-  
He screamed. It was so completely out of character but dammit if it wasn't also completely called for. He prided himself in being level headed, if one was to command anyone they had to be. But that was his Maker-damned baby girl out in that street being-being harassed by some backwater mongrel.   
“GET YOUR DAMN MUTT OFF OF MY GIRL!”

Hawke skidded to a halt and then stumbled forward as Merrill fell into her from behind. Damn, if Merrill would stop skipping everywhere this wouldn't happen every time Hawke had to make a stop. Well, maybe Hawke had been skipping, too, but that was hardly the point.  
Regardless, Hawke had slowed down after hearing what had to be the loudest bastard she'd ever heard call her dog a 'mutt'. Now, granted she didn't know for certain that Rebel was pure-blood mabari (honestly, if was very unlikely), his outburst was still very uncalled for.  
Or maybe it wasn't, she decided once she saw what the man was undoubtedly seeing.  
“Oh.” Merrill whispered. She repeated, “Oh. I'm not sure if your dog realizes he's in public.”  
“I think he knows, Daisy,” Varric chuckled. “He's a smart dog, but that still isn't stopping him.”  
“Aw, Rebel. Like I don't have enough trouble without you rutting in the middle of Hightown, probably with some noble's prissy lap-dog.” Well, actually the dog Rebel was, uh, romancing was awful big for one of the Kirkwall noble's pets. Kirkwallers usually had prettied upped dogs who were bred for their small size. A Ferelden owner would make much more sense for the beast under her pet beast.  
Varric nudged her and indicated a certain direction with a tilt of his head. “Uh oh. Here comes your dog's girlfriend's daddy.” Merrill and now Sebastian looked where Varric had nodded to.  
“Cousland?” Hawke couldn't stop the laughs that came out along with his name. From his seething glare he did not find the situation as humorous as she did.   
“Call off your damn mongrel,” he hissed and Hawke realized that, no, he did not find this funny at all.   
She obeyed, but that didn't mean this was over. “Rebel,” Hawke whistled shrilly and her dog came to her side, albeit reluctantly.   
“If your dog's in heat,” Aedan continued as he inspected his own hound, “keep him on a bloody leash.”  
“Whoa,” Hawke protested, frowning. “That little rendezvous was not one-sided. I hate to say it but if anyone's in heat it's your dog. Not mine.”  
“Not possible,” he said without a moment's consideration. “Moira's been bred to ignore such base thoughts while guarding her master.”   
“So it couldn't possibly be your fault,” she surmised, her mood darkening to match his. Sebastian laid a cautious hand on her arm. “And what are you even still doing here? The banquet ended days ago.”  
He pulled at the cuff of one of his sleeves. “I have further business in Kirkwall.”  
“Care to elaborate?”  
“No.”  
Hawke growled, ready to retort before Varric caught both of their attention by sighing dramatically and saying in a resigned tone, “Here we go.” He then pulled out a small leather bound journal used for keeping notes. “Now, if you two say anything really memorable make sure you enunciate your words so I can catch it all. Or if you start kissing you'll both need to turn a bit so I can get a better angle. For the good of my audience, people,” he added when Hawke and Aedan both stared at him.  
The Warden was completely bewildered. “Was that supposed to make any damn sense?”  
“Not to you,” Hawke shrugged, unapologetic. “And we're not going to kiss, Varric, so put your pen away.”  
“Then you two have to fight.”  
Hawke watched as Aedan glared down at his own dwarven companion, the look on his face saying 'what are you trying to do?' “Ohgren, what in the void is in your flask today?”  
Ohgren rolled his eyes. “It's obvious,” he said as if they were the slow ones. “If you ain't gonna fuck, you gotta fight. You humans mess around with all those other emotions too sodding much. There's two activities worth pursuing in life and that's it.”  
“Fucking and fighting?” Hawke grinned, taking a guess.   
Aedan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Life may be that simple for you, Ohgren, but the rest of us make it out to be a bit more complex than that.”  
“Yeah, and how much fun is that?” Ohgren asked with a snort. “Besides, everyone knows that you have a thing for dark haired apostates.”  
“Everyone doesn't know that,” Varric hummed, jotting something down in his journal. Aedan moved closer to him to try to get a peek at his scribbled writing.  
“What? What are you writing down? I-Maker, dwarf, am I not looking at Hawke as if she's my long lost love born again-where are you even getting all of this nonsense?!”  
“Ignore him. He always does that,” Hawke advised him, completely unconcerned. “If you won't answer my first question, why are you in Hightown?”  
Aedan didn't appear appeased. “I was visiting the Chantry.”  
Sebastian brightened and nodded pleasantly to the Warden. “I saw you there the other morning.”  
“Ugh, you went there twice?”  
Aedan shrugged noncommittally. “People notice if I don't. Don't your people care if you go?”  
She chuckled at that. It was a surprisingly bitter sound. “I'm an apostate. Why would I go? And I do visit there occasionally. Mostly to flirt with Sebastian but if getting Sebastian to realize his true place in life isn't the Maker's work than I don't know what is. And in case I wasn't clear before, Sebastian's place is in my pants.”  
Sebastian quickly released her arm while Merrill giggled. “Hawke!”  
Aedan couldn't help but snort and then say words he would later come to regret. “I can see where your hound gets it from.”  
“And we're back to that,” Varric sighed. “There's unnecessary drama wherever you go, Hawke. It's wonderful.”  
Hawke's eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared unattractively. “Okay, that's it. We're going with Ohgren's life philosophy. I'm going to kick your ass, Warden.”

A/N: Carlin means 'small champion' in Gaelic.


	12. For Ferelden

**Chapter 12: For Ferelden**

Aedan could feel the judging eyes of Hawke's companions on him. Anders, Varric, and Fenris were waiting to see if he would go along with her antics. He doubted the rest of them often refused her. Before he had a chance to accept himself, a heavy dwarven hand clamped down on his arm and steered him back onto the bench. Damn, Aedan had nearly looked over Ohgren's presence at the table. Usually the dwarf's scent gave him away, but he fit in quite nicely with the overall stench of the Hanged Man.  
“Go easy on him, Champion. Boy still hasn't forgotten the time he lost to me.” Ohgren grinned at Aedan through his blazing red beard. “Poor sod passed out right in front of his lady-friend.”  
That memory caused his brows to pinch together. Morrigan had never let that damn night go. The whole camp wouldn't let it go. Even Wynne of all people had given him shit for it. Feeling it necessary to defend his own honor, Aedan grunted, “That's because dwarven ale is not meant for human consumption. Hell, I don't think it's meant for dwarven consumption.”  
“Blah blah blah.” Ohgren was unimpressed by excuses or explanations. “Three sovereigns says this little girl drinks you under the table.”  
Hawke let out a low whistle. “Cousland, he just called you out.”  
This was a mistake. Getting smashed with a blood mage and her mentally unstable friends was never a wise choice. But the need to wipe that smirk off Ohgren's face was too great. Aedan adjusted his collar, cracked his knuckles, and said in response, “I'd like to point out two things to you, Ohgren; one, that's physically impossible and two, you're on.”

“Perhaps...” There was a pause. Words were suddenly becoming increasingly difficult to form. Which was not something Hawke was used to experiencing. She always had something to say, not always the right thing, mind you, but it took a lot to still her tongue. And tonight a lot evidently meant over a dozen ales. It was over a dozen, right? Maker, she hoped someone was keeping track.  
Aedan was still working on his last pint. Hawke had secretly been hoping that the warden-commander would be a loud drunk or a funny one. No, he grew even quieter and more thoughtful the more he drank. It wasn't exactly the change of pace she had been hoping for. He finally looked up at her moodily and asked, “Perhaps what?”  
“Perhaps this wasn't the best idea I've ever had,” Hawke finished awkwardly before Isabela slung an arm over her shoulder and patted her hand with her own. “This is supposed to be a celebration!” She gestured wildly to her friends, all who, like Cousland, were sitting quietly and drinking. Fenris and Anders had even come together to play a card game, despite their disdain for one another. Hawke knew Fenris had only agreed because Anders was so bloody awful and the elf took a small amount of pleasure in defeating him, if only in cards. “Two legends are sitting at a table together and nothing is happening!”  
Isabela's sing-song voice rang out before Aedan could answer Hawke's accusations. “Oh, Kit, you can't help it if Cousland was born boring.” The pirate fixed the noble with a satisfied smirk until Aedan slammed his fist onto the table. Drinks rattled from the impact, threatening to tip over.  
“Hey!” Hawke cradled her drink to her chest protectively. “Watch it. This right here is number twelve-”  
“Fifteen,” Varric corrected, holding up a sheet of paper with tally marks scratched onto it.  
“Fifteen? Really? Should I still be alive?”  
Aedan interrupted her mercilessly. “Oi, Hawkling. I'm not going to say this hasn't been fun, but some of us have to try to sneak back in an Orlesian mansion tonight. How about we settle this the old fashion way?”  
Varric was the most intrigued and thus asked first, “And that is?”  
“Arm wrestling.”  
Fenris laid down his hand and looked over. Hawke was snorting helplessly. As she said incredulously, “Arm-wrestling? D'you really think I'm going to go for that?”, Varric said, “She'd love to.”  
The warden obviously chose to listen to Varric. He propped his elbow up on the table, waiting for her to do the same. Hawke stared at his hand, frowning and realizing there was no possible way she could beat him.  
Without cheating.  
“Okay, Warden, what are the stakes?” She made a show out of pushing back her sleeves and getting into position.  
“Stakes? I win, you let me go. And,” he added, just as Hawke thought he was finished. “Afterward, you help me complete my task, the reason I'm still in this pisshole of a city.”  
Ah, he was talking about the spy ordeal. Since she had refused him Varric was Cousland's only option left. “Don't call my city a pisshole,” she snapped without any real fire. Kirkwall was sort of a pisshole. “And if I win?”  
The bastard laughed at the idea. “If the impossible happens, you can choose.”  
“Fine.” Isabela and Varric were suddenly paying attention. Anders had abandoned the card game and was hovering protectively over Hawke's shoulder. “I win, you have to answer three questions. Truthfully. No exceptions.”  
Isabela booed that decision. “Questions? That's what you want? Hawke, you're not thinking this through. This could have been our only chance to get him to take off his pants.”  
“Oooh, damn. You're right. I don't think I thought this through-”  
She was quickly cut off. Cousland was wagging a finger at her. “No. We already agreed to the three questions. Let's stick with that, shall we?”  
Shrugging noncommittally, she answered, “If you wish. It's a shame, though, if you believe what the whores have been saying about you.”  
Anders in particular was intrigued by that. “You've been to the brothel? Andraste's knickerweasels, I'm going to have to write Nathaniel.”  
Cousland was getting irritated, as was Hawke's intention. “Technically, Isabela brought the brothel to me, and Maker, Ohgren, it wasn't for that.”  
Now Fenris was hovering, hunched and watchful and as usual, wary of her latest antic. “He could break your arm, Hawke.”  
Ah. Now Cousland was impatient. “I promise I won't. Let's get on with it.”  
“Cousland, the first day I met you you snapped some guy's arm like a twig.” But still she put her arm on the table and curled her fingers around his hand. Oh, maker, she was definitely going to have to cheat.  
Varric was busy taking everyone's bets. The odds were not exactly in her favor. In a small show of pity Aedan assured her, “I'll drag it out. Don't want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”  
Mercy? From Cousland? He was going to regret that. “I appreciate it, Cousland. I really, really do.”  
Isabela leaned over the table and placed her hands over Hawke and Cousland's clasped hands. “Everyone ready?”  
Hawke and Cousland groaned in unison. “Yes.”  
“Shirts off?”  
“Isabela.”  
“Alright, alright.” Isabela let go of their hands and shouted, “Begin!”  
He wasn't even trying. Normally she would have felt insulted, but this could actually play in her favor. And an idea was forming that would test their new relationship. It was dangerous, yes, but Hawke didn't trust anyone that heard the word 'blood mage' and didn't start reciting the chant of light. She personally liked those sorts of people, though it was her experience that anyone who was fine with blood magic, it was usually because they were into something worse.  
Letting it look like she stood a chance, instead of just slamming her hand to the table, was sort of nice of Cousland. If nice was ever a word she would have used to describe him. However, he was going to regret that soon.  
Hawke clenched his hand tighter and discreetly and slowly used her blood magic to start leeching off his strength. As their hands suddenly dipped lower to his side of the table, a direct result of her spell, she said through gritted teeth, “You know, I used to have a crush on you.” Fuck it if Fenris heard her. She was going to test Cousland's 'tolerance' of blood magic, now, before he was out of her sight and possibly running to the templars with her secret.  
Cold, warden grey eyes widened in surprise. Whether it was from the sudden flow of blood magic or from what she said, she didn't know. “Used to?” he finally answered.  
“Yes, well, that was before I met you.” She smiled snarkily until she felt a strange sensation running up and down her arm. What the fuck? Hawke looked up at the man straight across from her and startled. Cousland was smiling. She didn't need to be a mage to sense that wasn't right.  
“Not used to being on the other end of it, are you?” Oh, Hawke didn't like that tone. Her friends wouldn't understand what he meant by that and Varric even asked for clarification that he never received. But she knew. The strange feeling in her arm had to be part of those reaver techniques Cousland had claimed to have. He had likened them to her blood magic but she hadn't understood the similarities until now. The closest she could come to describing it would be that it was a sucking feeling. Like being drained, which she guessed was exactly what was happening.  
She almost felt bad about the scum she used her own blood techniques on.  
Ohgren was Cousland's personal coach now. “Warden, what's taking you so sodding long?”  
Cousland snapped at him. “Ohgren, shut up. Hawkling-”  
Hawke sped up her draining spell. If he wanted a battle of wills she'd gladly give it to him. Cousland grunted in response. “I don't like that nickname, Warden.” This must have been taking longer than Isabela anticipated because the pirate yawned and started wandering around the table, trying to distract them both into making a mistake.  
Cousland sneered and fought back as well. Damn, she was certainly glad she didn't run into too many reavers in Kirkwall. “Would you prefer Marian then?”  
That caught Isabela's wandering attention. “Why would you call Hawke Marian?”  
Hawke was equally as confused as her companions. “You all do know I have a first name, right?” There was an unearthly pause. “Oh, I am so not talking to any of you.”  
“Your friends are very perceptive, Marian. And I'll ask this again, 'used to'? What? Am I too tall?” Cousland was starting to win, mostly out of pure strength. Her magic wasn't going to help her this time-  
Oh, wait. Maybe she just wasn't using it right. Hawke smirked. “You're prettier in the stories.”  
“Are you saying I'm not-”  
The small shot of electricity she sent up Cousland's arm was barely noticeable to the naked eye. It was very noticeable to Cousland. Noticeable enough that she was able to slam his hand down on the table and end the match. The table erupted in a chorus of boos and cheers in equal number. Hawke started laughing until Aedan jumped up from the table. As was her habit, she decided to speak first. “You shouldn't have gone easy on me. And, in my defense, you never said no magic.”  
He was about as convinced as she thought he'd be. He stated simply, “You cheated.”  
“Yes,” Hawke shrugged, waiting to see if she was going to end up fighting the Hero of Ferelden after all.  
“You're a cheater.”  
She gestured to herself and to Isabela. “We prefer the term survivalist, thank you.”  
His Ferelden accent was getting thicker. “I ought to kick your arse, Marian.” Fenris stood up slowly, the only one in the tavern to take his threat seriously. “But, you're right. Should have beat you when I could. Tactical error. Won't happen again.” Aedan sat back down, sipped at his ale, and gestured for her to go on. “Now, then. These questions. Shoot.”

Answer three questions? Aedan shook his head and downed the rest of his drink. Fine, but knowing Hawke these questions would be immature. Asking about the color of his smalls or queries about his virginity or lack thereof. Maker, he should have just taken her down quickly, as he would have any other time. But he hadn't wanted to be rude.  
Instead of winning and leaving, Aedan had been tricked into a game of wills. His reaver skills versus her blood magic. Rather risky with all her oblivious friends gathered around and scores of templars combing the city for her kind. She had been testing him. That was certain. Trying to see if he'd give her up now that they were in public.  
“First question,” Hawke-now-Marian interrupted his mental analysis of her possible motives. “What's your favorite color?”  
The boos from her companions were quite amusing. Aedan just raised a brow, surprised. Hawke was clever. She wouldn't waste this opportunity on something idiotic like that.  
“Purple,” he answered. Ohgren gave him a strange look for it, but it was the truth.  
“Like lilac?” Anders teased.  
“No, darker purple...you know, what? Forget that, next question.”  
Hawke leaned back and grinned, hands laced behind her head. “Second question, Warden. Do you take after your mother or your father?”  
What in the Void is she leading up to? “These are not the sort of questions I thought you were going to ask, Marian.”  
Varric snorted, as disappointed as Isabela was. “No kidding.”  
Marian looked perfectly satisfied as she waved a hand at him. “Oh, come on, Cousland. Everyone has a parent that they try to be like and then there's the parent they actually are like. Believe it or not, there was once a time I tried to be a right proper lady like my mother. Most uncomfortable thirty seconds of my life.”  
“You lasted thirty seconds?” That was from the elf behind her, the protective one she'd been fighting with in the Deep Roads earlier.  
The Champion was refreshingly honest. “Give or take. Mostly take.”  
Aedan wished he hand been drinking more heavily now. Speculating which of his dead parents he was more like was not something he exactly wanted to do. Ever. “Shit, Marian,” he sighed. “Fergus was more like my father. Goodhearted, always joking. Jokes my mother and I used to sigh at.”  
“You're a momma's boy, good to know.”  
Not what Aedan wanted to hear. He tried to tune out Ohgren's guffawing. “Alright, Marian. Not that I'm not thrilled that your dwarf friend is writing all of this down, but can we get to the final question?”  
Varric held aloft his quill with a tilt of his head. “I'm my vast experience I've learned to take notes.”  
Aedan wanted to move things along. “Final. Question.”  
“Okay, okay,” Marian held up her hands, shrugging. “Now this last one might sound a little ridiculous. But what I'd like to know is...” There was an unnecessary pause for effect. “What did you do to my baby brother?”  
It was amazing how quickly the atmosphere in the Hanged Man changed. The other patrons continued drinking and talking too loudly, but everyone in their little corner of the place was as silent as the dead.  
“Could you be a little more specific?” Now Aedan knew what had been the point of this little game. The Champion didn't know what had happened with her brother, one of his newest wardens. What Aedan didn't understand was why the Champion hadn't fulfilled her curiosity with Anders. Aedan wasn't naive enough to believe Anders was still so loyal to the grey wardens as to keep all their secrets. The real question was why wasn't Marian asking Anders things questions, unless she didn't trust him to tell the truth.  
Marian's playful smirk was all but gone. “Your warden, Stroud, the one with the fantastic mustache, he was reluctant to take my brother on as a recruit. I nearly had to beg him. I want to know why. I can't imagine it was because he didn't think Carver was warden material.” Aedan didn't recognize this new edge to her voice and it was damn apparent that her companions didn't either. “My brother's been running from templars and the Chasind and those who would sell his sisters to the Chantry for a copper since he was out of diapers. Why did Stroud hesitate? What happened to my brother when your lot took him in.”  
“When my lot took him in?” Aedan repeated quietly. He shared a quick, concerned glance with Anders. “They postponed his death.”  
That answer was unsatisfactory. Marian frowned. “I know that. I-”  
“No, you don't. They postponed it.” The grey wardens did like their secrets. Personally Aedan felt it was their damn secrets that caused every king and commoner alike to mistrust them. “Your brother will still die from his...affliction. I'm sure Stroud mentioned that becoming a warden isn't a cure.” Stroud wasn't one to cut corners. Took being a warden very seriously, even, Aedan had to admit, more seriously than he did.  
She nodded. “He did say that. Several times. Until it got annoying.”  
Aedan had to give him credit. Anders tried to steer Marian away from this topic of conversation. “Hawke, we can talk about this later. I'll-”  
“Try to protect me. You'll lie.” Marian never looked away from Aedan. “Keep talking, Warden.” Gladly, if it gets me out of here. “Since your brother joined us his death's been set in stone. He has thirty years, unless the darkspawn get him first. Sorry, less than thirty. “  
“What?” Marian leaned forward. “I mean, when he said it wasn't a 'cure' I thought he just meant Carver would have to fight darkspawn for the rest of his life.”  
Anders wasn't so keen to be sitting so close to Marian now. Aedan continued, “There's that, but what eats away at the darkspawn is eating away at your brother as well. Thirty years is approximately the time it takes for this to destroy the body and mind of a warden.” A thought hit him, one that he'd been able to keep at bay for a long time. “It's getting closer to twenty for me.”  
And with that Marian shut down. Her face smoothed over, her sarcastic mask slipping back into play. “Damn. Guess you're rethinking that career choice.”  
Wasn't a choice. Aedan kept that to himself. “I am sorry about what happened to your brother. And maybe he won't appreciate what you did for him now. Maybe he will never appreciate what you did for him.”  
Marian laughed. It was faked, but he could barely tell. “Aren't you a ray of sunshine.”  
“You didn't let me finish,” he tried to say. The middle of his sentence was interrupted by the smoking bastard he had knocked cold hours ago.  
“You piece of Ferelden dog-shit.”  
“Yes?” Marian answered cheerfully. She tilted her head at the confused stares of Aedan and the formerly comatose bastard. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were speaking to me. Old habits from living in Lowtown, I suppose.”  
The man grabbed Aedan's arm and sneered at her. “Wasn't talking to you, bitch.”  
“Hey, piss off,” Isabela threw her empty mug his way. “We're all angry and drunk and you're insulting our friends.” Her words were silently seconded by the elf and Anders. Varric's quills were out of sight and that crossbow of his was lying on the table.  
“My fight's with him,” he replied and Aedan knew the man must still be suffering from his earlier head wound. Smart people didn't point to him and announce they wanted to fight. “But,” he continued, nodding to Marian, “if your dog-fucking girlfriend wants to try a real man any time soon, I have a room upstairs.”  
Aedan's next move was, in a word, spontaneous. He didn't normally do spontaneous but someone needed to punch that arsehole in the face and Hawke was all the way on the other side of the table. And Ohgren, well he was in too deep into his ale to know what the hell was going on around him.  
Hitting the drunk was called for. Shouting, “You Free-Marcher piece of shit, how dare you talk to your champion that way,” was less called for.  
Aedan watched the man drop to the floor, again, until he felt Marian's hand on his shoulder. “I'd say thanks for that, but right now I think I should point out that you've insulted every Free-Marcher in the place and they are all drunk enough to want to fight you.”  
After a brief examination of the situation, Aedan confirmed that she was right. A lot of people wanted to kick his arse right now. “Why do I always hit the fucker with the most stupid friends in the same place?”  
“Don't know,” she grinned, her feet shifting into a fighting stance. “But maybe a black eye might pretty you up a bit, Cousland. Certainly couldn't hurt.”  
“If we weren't about to get into a drunken brawl together, Marian...”  
“Ah, but we are. Try not to break any of the chairs. Corff hates that.”

“This wasn't my fault.” Hawke had tried that line on Aveline before (unsuccessfully), but it was honestly, swear to the Maker, actually true this time. The Hero of Ferelden had technically started it. She had just joined in the fight a little too enthusiastically.  
Aveline held her face in both hands for a long time before she looked up again. “Hawke, you're trying to tell me that the Hero of Ferelden, defeater of the Blight, commander of the Grey, Arl of Amaranthine--”  
“Oh, I didn't know he was an Arl--”  
The guards-captain continued on as if Hawke had never spoken. “--brother of Teryn Fergus Cousland, actually started a bar fight in a foreign country he's a tourist in. That's what you are trying to tell me?”  
Hawke considered that considerable statement. “I doubt he'd like being referred to as a 'tourist'.”  
“I could give a fig what he likes, Hawke!”  
“They insulted Ferelden!”  
“Is that why Fenris got involved? And Isabela?”  
“They insulted Ferelden...in a roundabout way,” she finished rather lamely. “Shit, it might be better if you have Cousland explain all this.”  
For once Aveline didn't see the need to argue. “Perhaps that would be best. Bring the Warden in!” she shouted to some guard Hawke didn't recognize. Must be new, she definitely would have remembered that shapely ass.  
She had to hand it to him, even with a black eye Cousland knew how to walk into a room like he thought he was better than whomever else was in it. “You called for me, Guard-Captain Vallen?”  
“Yes,” Aveline gestured for him to sit down. Rude, Hawke thought, since she was making her stand. “I thought you could explain what transpired in the Hanged Man this evening.”  
“I can. The Champion's safety was in question and I and her companions acted accordingly.” Aedan shrugged. “She was insulted directly, though it was I that caused the original offense.”  
Those two sentences were not going to satisfy Aveline. “That's it? That's all you have to say?”  
“That should be all I have to say.”  
Ohhh, shit. Aveline would not like the way that had come out. Cousland could sound really snotty when he wanted to. He was using his I-didn't-kill-a-fucking-dragon-to-be-talked-to-this-way voice. It was sad that Hawke could already recognize it.  
Finally, “There will be fines.”  
Cousland was undisturbed. In fact, he looked bored. “They will be paid.”  
Aveline pointed at the two of them. “And this can't happen again.”  
“I promise,” Hawke saluted her awkwardly. She was starting to feel the effects of the night's drinking binge. Aveline remained unconvinced.  
Shuffling through some papers, Aveline told them as though it pained her to do so, “You've both been sitting in lockup for a good time now, while we sorted this out. I'll give you time served.”  
“And that's our cue!” Hawke tugged Cousland out of his seat and passed Aveline's frowning guards. She tried to find the one with the nice ass on their way out but she was long gone. Cousland allowed himself to be pulled along until they reached the courtyard. Her house was only a few yards away; Cousland had to turn a few more corners to find the de Launcet's place.  
Hawke held out her hand. “Is this where we part ways as unlikely friends? Or is this when we fuck? I can't remember.”  
Cousland made a strange sort of choking sound in surprise. “Sometimes I wonder how it is that you defeated the Arishok,” he admitted finally, trying to change the conversation.  
“All I remember is running in circles. And being impaled.” She thought about that and suggested, “Maybe we need another drink.”  
“Drinking is what landed us in jail.”  
“But the night is young!”  
“The sun's about to rise.” Cousland was determined to be a buzzkill.  
“Fuck. Is it?” Hawke started for her door. “Shit, then you might as well stay for breakfast.”  
The mention of food had his attention. “Breakfast?”  
“yes, but don't be too excited. It's Sandal and Bodahn's turn to make breakfast. Enchanted toast and jam again.”  
Cousland stopped in her doorway and refused to move any further. “Did you just say Sandal and Bodahn?”


	13. Special Delivery

**Chapter 13: Special Delivery**

Sandal was hanging for dear life on one of Aedan's legs. And he wouldn't let go. Aedan had tried peeling off the young dwarf, had even tried bribing him with pie, but to no avail. Now the warden glared impatiently (as though this was Hawke's fault-which in a way she supposed it could be construed as her fault, but really she had only suggested that Sandal give Cousland a hug) at her, but she didn't really see the need to help him out. Instead Hawke made for her dining room table and sat down, waiting to be served. Bodahn, after he had greeted the warden and rambled on about their travels together, had left for the kitchen and was making something that didn't smell poisonous, at the very least.  
“Honestly,” Cousland shouted to the kitchen, “I didn't think I'd ever see you two again!”  
“Enchantment!”  
“Yes, Sandal, enchantment. Can you let go now?” Sandal was obviously reluctant, but Hawke was surprised to see he actually listened to Cousland. Once free, Cousland sat down across from her at the table, similar to how they had been seated last night.  
Hawke pushed her chair far enough from the table so she could prop her boots up on it. “Bodahn, you run into the most interesting people, don't you?”  
“It's just my good luck, I suppose,” the dwarf admitted. “Or bad luck, depending on how you look on it. The two of you get into an awful lot of trouble.”  
“It's not intended,” Cousland said as Hawke replied, “It's just what I do.”  
“Right,” Bodahn narrowed his eyes. “I did hear something about the two of landing yourselves in jail. Not that that's unusual for our Serah Hawke-”  
Hawke made a face. “Thanks, Bodahn.”  
“-but Cousland, I'm surprised at you.”  
As Cousland attempted to explain, Hawke quickly spoke over him. “You shouldn't be. Cousland just gets out of trouble and silly things like consequences because he's a blueblood.”  
Hawke glanced impishly over at Cousland, wanting some kind of reaction only to receive a simple shrug. “Sometimes it pays to be a condescending noble,” he retorted glibly.  
She looked sheepish for once. “I am sorry that I called you that.”  
“It's fine...wait, you never called me that.”  
“Not to your face.”  
Cousland's eyes narrowed and Hawke could tell he was debating on whether it was worth arguing with her. Finally he made a swipe at her boots and demanded in that snotty high and mighty tone of his, “Get your damn boots off the table.”  
“It's my table,” Hawke argued before she gave herself a hard push away from the table. Standing and swaying a bit, she added brightly, “Let's go to the Hanged Man for breakfast.”  
“You mean that dirty place we were kicked out of last night?”  
“Shut up. You sound like you're Orlesian. And do you know how many times I've been kicked out of there.”  
“I could hazard a guess.”  
Bodahn watched them, smiling softly until he smacked himself swiftly in the forehead. Hawke gave him a careful look. “Trying to kill flies, Bodahn?”  
“No, serah, though I hate the blasted things,” the dwarf admitted with a slow shake of his head. “I simply failed to mention that you received a package last night while you were-”  
“Warming the jail bench for Isabela, go on,” Hawke interrupted.  
Bodahn decided to forgo that train of thought. “I'll go and fetch it now, serah.”  
“Unless it's pancakes, I don't really...and he's off,” she finished lamely, looking over at Cousland. “He's very determined, isn't he?”  
He was trying to hide a smile. “He certainly isn't easily deterred. Even if you have an army of darkspawn gnawing at your rear.”  
“Sounds like that's from experience,” Hawke pointed out and gestured with grabby hands for Bodahn to give the package he was entering with. “Gimme, gimme. It's probably from Lord Cyril.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, wiggling her eyebrows at Cousland while he struggled to keep a straight face, “He wants me to have his fancy Orlesian babies.”  
Cousland had perfected the monotone. “You must be thrilled.” He shook his head disapprovingly as Hawke shook her wrapped package, trying to guess what was in it.  
“Who doesn't want a bunch of children with accents you can't understand?” She slowly and agonizingly began tearing off the brown wrapping paper. “Could be a book,” she hummed cheerfully. Hawke paused. “It better not be a book.”  
“Literature never hurt anybody.”  
She countered peevishly, “You've never read any of Isabela's novellas. I've been permanently scarred. And that takes a lot.”  
Cousland gave a sort of half-snort before slowly sipping the hot tea Bran had brought him. He enjoyed a few minutes of glorious silence before he realized something was wrong. It was silent. Hawke was silent.  
He looked up at her, expecting her to be stuffing her face with some pastry or such and instead found her to be staring down at the table, visibly shaking. “Hawke,” Cousland started, slowly standing up from his seat. “What was in that package?”  
“You need to leave.”  
Oh, she was giving him orders now? He had had enough of that back in Ferelden. Cousland placed one hand on the table and used it to vault over. Pushing away the discarded brown paper Cousland snatched away a frame and studied the picture closely. It was a worn painting of a older woman, hair grey but still elegantly done up and pinned. “Who is this?” he asked quietly as Bodahn appeared at his shoulder.  
The dwarf pulled on the human's arm until Cousland lowered the painting enough for him to get a glimpse at what was causing his mistress's distress. “It looks like...” He almost seemed afraid to finish. “It looks like your mother.”  
“Doesn't it?” Hawke's voice is too high, too unnatural. “That was the problem, wasn't it? This women looked like my mother! This fucking bitch-”  
He didn't know why he did it, but Cousland laid a hand on her arm to calm her. She was obviously having some sort of a meltdown and while he did try to think of something reassuring to say all he came out with was, “Who sent this?”  
“I don't know,” she began, but then...  
There was only one person who would have snuck down to that fucking necrophiliac's sewer to steal that bastard's painting just to torture her with. Someone she should have killed a long time ago.  
Hawke suddenly shoved Cousland away from her and stormed for the exit. Under her breath she corrected herself. “Oh, I know.”

Meeran was half-asleep and fully naked on his bunk in the middle of the Red Iron's warehouse. He was having a rather good dream about one of the brothel girls, the one who had actually been rather impressed by his stories. The only one that bothered actually talking to him. It was getting good, too, that was until an incessant pounding started at his door. It was quickly followed by yelling.  
“Meeran, wake the fuck up! I need to talk to you! Fucking now!”  
“Hawke!” Dammit, he thought when she had quit the Red Iron he would have been saved from her horrible sense of timing. “What in the Maker's name do you want?”  
Meeran felt the room shake as Hawke threw her body at his locked door. “I want him fucking dead!”  
Tired of her screaming through his door frame, Meeran threw the door open, recalling all too late his current lack of attire. “Who this time? And why can't you handle this yourself?”  
“Gascard Dupuis.” Hawke was unfazed by his package. Sadly it was a feeling Meeran was used to. “I think he's been stalking me. Maybe behind the attempt on my life. I don't know, this is all very sudden.” Hawke stepped inside his room and immediately began pacing in a small loop. “And I can't find him. So I can't kill him. You need to find him.”  
“I need to find him?” That sounded like a lot of work.  
“Yes,” Hawke muttered, a hand pulling at her already too short hair. “Send out your men. All of them.”  
Oh, this definitely sounded like a lot of work. “All of my men?” What had this Orlesian pansy done to piss Hawke off this bloody much? “You couldn't afford that if you gave me the deed to that estate of yours.”  
“Then consider it fucking yours.” Hawke snarled. “The rest will come later.”

 

Cousland waited for Hawke, waited up until the point that Bodahn and Oriana began to whisper and make jests he didn't want to listen to, before he stormed out of her household and headed for the de Launcet's place. It had become rather apparent that the Champion was occupied elsewhere and would not be coming home any time soon.  
Her outburst and sudden flight had surprised him and Bodahn himself could not explain what had just happened or where Hawke had gone to. Following her, of course, had come to mind, though Cousland could sense that, whatever the blazes this was, it was personal.  
So instead of tracking down Kirkwall's wayward Champion, Cousland returned to the Comtessa and found that she too had been stuck waiting today.  
Waiting on him.  
Waiting with several young noble ladies, all of the age to marry.  
It wasn't looking good for him.

He found it shocking how entertaining it was to act like a gossipy bitch for a day.  
The Comtessa had, under Arl Eamon's damn orders, invited what Aedan had assumed to be half of Kirkwall's nobility. All for his benefit. The whole affair was ridiculous. Was he really expected to just pick one of them, basing his choice solely on a little chat over tea and biscuits.  
The Comtessa led them in one at a time, gave them a cup and simply let them ramble on. Once she felt the girl had been given enough time, the Comtessa had her servants take her outside so the Comtessa could explain to Aedan what had been wrong with this one.  
“Too outspoken.”  
“I did not know that was a vice?”  
“Too many ruffles.”  
“Oh, that one I agree with,” Aedan muttered before he straightened up in shame. “Maker, we shouldn't be speaking of them this way. I'm sure these ladies have some sort of emotions. From the way they've been treating your servants I sort of doubt it, but there is always a possibility.”  
The Comtessa pursed her lips. “They are the best I could do at such sort notice. Eamon said this was an emergency.” Aedan snorted in response. “I personally had thought you were trying to woo our Champion--”  
“Woo?” he repeated in disbelief. “Who said anything about wooing?”  
“Were you not in her company all last night and this morning? The servants have been talking about little else.”  
Were they? “I am not trying to woo the Champion,” he finally stated slowly, as if she were a child.  
“Does that mean you've already succeeded?”  
“I'm not trying to succeed-”  
“I don't understand.”  
The urge to use every blasphemous phrase Zevran had ever taught him rose exceptionally at that moment. Instead, Aedan waved to the servants to bring another possible future bride into the drawing room, Maker help him.

It isn't until dinner that the Comtessa decides that none of the brides were suitable for the Warden. Aedan's pleased until she announces that just means they'll have to try again the following day.

Despite himself, Aedan found a few of the women charming enough that he didn't loathe the idea of marrying them. Feeling slightly guilty about it (he has to admit to himself that he's not exactly good husband material—he's too secretive, too competitive, and far too absorbed in his work), Aedan invites a few prospective brides to the Keep. He knows they find it odd to be invited there and not his actual home in Highever, though none of them protest.  
He swore he was going to kick Eamon's arse next time they meet.  
Honestly, though, Eamon's going to be feeling the same; Aedan had failed to procure the Champion as a spy for Ferelden. He was not looking forward to explaining that.  
Aedan began immediate plans to head back to Ferelden.

There's a sea of maroon amour, and in the midst of it, Hawke, standing tall and determined and surprisingly not cowering under the piercing gaze of her ginger guard friend.  
Aveline used a phrase she often used on Hawke, “You can't do this.”  
“No,” Hawke countered boldly, calmly. “I can.”  
The Guards-Captain looked taken aback for a moment, not recognizing this new authoritative tone Hawke was using. This was different. Something was wrong. Usually a stern talking to was all it took to get Hawke to do what Aveline wanted-no, needed to be done.  
Aveline tried again. “Hawke, you can't be running around Kirkwall with an bloody army--”  
“Why not?” Hawke made a show of glancing at her nails and ignoring the crowd of people gathering to watch the Captain of the Guard and their champion duke it out.  
Aveline shifted, uncomfortable with their audience. Why wasn't that obvious? That should have been obvious. “Because you're scaring people.”  
“She's right.” A templar stepped away from the crowd making Aveline scowl and wish she had approached Hawke about inside the Keep rather than out on the open where wandering templar-captains could eavesdrop.  
“Knight-Captain Cullen,” Aveline nodded politely, if a bit forced.  
“Cullen,” Hawke mock saluted him. “Nice of you to stop by but can't you see that the Guard-Captain and I are having a public lover's spat?”  
“Don't.”  
“Everyone can see that,” Cullen retorted and Hawke realized she had never seen him smile. “Which is why I am here, Serah Hawke. Knight-Commander Meredith has overheard rumors that the Champion has been combing through Kirkwall with her own private army. You see why this would concern her, don't you?”  
Hawke didn't see why Cullen asked her questions he didn't want an answer to. “Yes, yes,” she drawled, “can't have two crazy bitches with their own armies. There's not enough room in Kirkwall.” Neither Aveline nor Cullen laughed at that, but her borrowed army did. If one thing could be said for Meeran, he knew how to pick men and women with a good sense of humor.  
Cullen cut right to it. “The Knight-Commander would like to speak with you.”  
“Of course she would,” Aveline glared pointedly in Hawke's direction, as if this was all her fault. And it was.

Cullen asked Hawke that her men stay outside of the Gallows and after complaining loudly she agreed. Aveline insisted on accompanying them, probably there to keep Hawke from setting things on fire. And also “mother” her.  
“Did you not see this coming?”  
“I don't see a lot of the things that happen to me coming.” Meredith had them waiting outside her office and Hawke was getting twitchy. She could only hope the men she was renting from Meeran would track down this wannabe necromancer. Oh, that reminded her. Hawke leaned over to Aveline and whispered in mock cheer, “By the way, I may have promised Meeran the estate in exchange for my little army, so...”  
“HAWKE!”  
Meredith's door swung open and a very frustrated Orsino stormed out. “Looks like the First Enchanter warmed her up for us,” Hawke beamed despite everything and stepped inside the office. Even with Aveline there she was probably going to have to set something aflame in the Knight-Commander's presence anyway, just on principle.  
Hawke put on her best fake smile, which was the same as her normal smile, and greeted the templar with a cheery, “Good morning, Knight-Commander.”  
Meredith's Tranquil assistant felt the need to point out, “Serah Hawke, it's only midday.”  
“Huh. I thought it felt early.”  
“Stop talking. Listen.” Meredith had never been one for idle chitchat. “Tell me about the  
is band of mercenaries you've hired. And let me be clear, this is the band of mercs you hired from that Red Iron bastard, Meeran, and not the band of misfits you usually run around with.”  
“These ones,” Hawke clarified pointedly as Aveline whispered to her not to say anything stupid, “I've hired for a private vendetta.” Hawke could tell by Aveline's long sigh that that was something stupid.  
Meredith nodded as if that was what she had expected. “Champion, I don't think I have to tell you way I can't have you running around--”  
No point in trying to hide it. Hawke interrupted her with, “I'm hunting down a very dangerous blood mage. And I plan to kill him. ”

 

“Well' that's the first time Meredith and I have ever agreed on something.”  
“Do you even hear yourself?” Aveline demanded, leading the way out of the Gallows.  
“Meredith gave me permission to continue on with my good work,” Hawke countered, jogging to keep up with Aveline's pace. “Provided my “army” is disbanded right after I apprehend Gascard.”  
“I didn't think you planned on simply apprehending him.”  
“I don't.”  
“He's not the one who--”  
“Killed my mother?” Hawke asked quietly. “No, he's not, but he sent me a message. And I'm not waiting around for him to try something before I act.”  
“That's not how the law works.”  
“You're the law. I'm the comic relief. That's how it's always been.”  
“I think one of us may have changed since they had their little dance with the Arishok. It may have happened even before then.” Aveline had stopped walking. She was turned around and squinting at her friend. “I don't know why I haven't seen it before now. Perhaps I thought you were still in shock.”  
This topic of conversation was making her nervous. What was Aveline getting at? “I think you're over thinking things. You do tend to do that.”  
“Can I ask you something, Hawke?”  
“Can I stop you?”  
“Why are you using Meeran's men for this and not your friends?”  
The words were out before Hawke could stop them. “There's no pay in a job like this.”  
“Hawke, you don't mean that.” There was anger there and hurt and it made Hawke feel like a jackass.  
She tried to take it back, “I was joking.”  
And as unfair as she knew it was, there was a small part of her that wasn't.

Hawke's new crew caught back up with them on their way back to the Keep. After convincing Aveline to go back to the Keep without her, Hawke asked for a report. “I thought I asked you to wait outside the Gallows? And where are the rest of you?” Out of the originally twenty-seven men Meeran had given her she now was down to a grand total of two.  
The smallest one, Tom or William or something, spoke up first. “We received a tip about Dupuis. The rest went off to check it out. We thought--”  
“Where is he now?”  
Tom/William/Something flashed her a grin. “The rest of the crew is chasing him through Hightown as we speak. Care to join us?”  
“Oh, yes.”


	14. Story Time

**Chapter 14: Story Time**

“I don't like how this feels.” Aedan Cousland stood in the middle of Kirkwall's docks and frowned more impressively than he usually did. His subordinates moved back and forth around him, helping out the sailors of the vessel that was taking them back to Ferelden.  
Cartier groaned as he and Sienna carried their gear onto the ship while Ohgren and the Warden-Commander watched. “Because you know I hate it when people say something ominous like that and then don't explain themselves, explain yourself.”  
Aedan tried to cross his arms before realizing he couldn't due to the fact that there was a baby strapped to his chest. He had thought about leaving young Carlin in the care of the Kirkwall chantry but then he remembered Kirkwall was crazy. Sure, Ferelden had been crawling with darkspawn just a few years ago but at least it didn't have a Knight-Commander and First Enchanter at war with each other. All in all, taking the orphan back to Ferelden and back to their chantry would be safer. Cousland expanded on his previous statement in response to Cartier's request, “I failed at the task I was given and I have to return to Ferelden empty handed.” A particularly odorous sailor passed by too close and Aedan momentarily regretted being born with a sense of smell. “I've never had to deal with this before. Failing. Doesn't sit right with me.”  
Sienna dropped the crate she'd been carrying. “Okay, Ser Perfect. We'll hold a moment of silence in honor of your first failure in a minute but first I'm going to ask you a question. I understand why you're not helping us carry your things with that whole baby situation you've got going on there,” she said, indicating the slobbering elf child Aedan was holding. “But why isn't the dwarf helping? That's what I would like to know.”  
“It's honestly more work to get Ohgren to do what you want than it's worth. So I'm letting him supervise.” Cousland stared dramatically into the horizon. “My first failure has been at the hands of that.” He pointed accusingly at the giant statue of the Champion.  
“Hey,” Cartier shoved his crate off on one of the sailors and placed a hand on his commander's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Being married is terrible. Trust me I've been there. Worst decision I've ever made four times.”  
“Marriage? I wasn't talking about marriage.” Aedan made a face like he had just seen something slightly more horrifying than a broodmother. “Why are you talking about marriage?”  
“You were trying to marry the Champion. Obviously.” Sienna tied to get some of the sailors to do her work for her but they politely declined by laughing extremely loudly and walking away.  
“Why does everyone think that? I wasn't trying--”  
“Hey, if you're going to get rejected by someone let it be someone with a statue of themselves.” Cartier patted him awkwardly. “You'll bounce back from this, kid.”  
“One, while I recognize that you are older than me you will never call me 'kid' again. And, two, you better get away from me before I come up with a number two.”  
“Message received.”  
“Hey. Hey!” Sienna threw the crate she had just picked back up and managed to knock someone off the pier. “It's little miss heartbreaker.”  
Aedan didn't appreciate the joke but he already started walking in the direction Sienna was pointing at. He should have been more surprised at the Champion's current appearance, specifically the fact she looked like she had spent the night in a gutter. “Hawkling, you look like...” He paused. “Like you've been busy.”  
“Right, right, right,” the Champion responded rather cheerfully despite her ragged and tired appearance. Aedan tried to ask another question but Hawk stopped him. “Hold on, I'm still on fire just a bit, give me a second...”  
Aedan took a step back. “What in the name of Andraste happened to you?”  
“I'm sort of in a strange place right now,” she said, brushing at her robes. “Running from the law, I kind of just stabbed a guy, and Meredith wants my head on a silver platter.” Hawke considered that sentence and added, “Actually, now that I've heard that out loud it sounds like a normal day for me but I assure you it was much worse than that.”  
He wasn't sure how to take that. After gesturing violently at Cartier and Sienna to stop eavesdropping, Aedan asked, “Did you want to talk about it?”  
“Yes,” Hawke nodded vigorously in agreement. “I do. However, while I've been in hiding for the past few days I heard that you're going back to Amaranthine and I was wondering...could I hitch a ride?”  
He sighed deeply. Then sighed again. Thought about it before he gave his consent. “Get in the damn ship before someone sees you talking to me. And then tell me what's going on.”  
“Well, I hope you brought a snack because this is going to take a while.”

 

Hawke didn't want to think about the irony of the situation. Here she was chasing down a necromancer through Hightown in the middle of day and Meredith wasn't even paying her to do it.  
She was scared at how much anger was running through her as she took up the chase with the Red Iron at her back. She had all but forgotten about Gascard, which had been lucky for him. He might have yet lived if he hadn't reminded her of his presence by sending that damned painting. Gascard had gotten away after helping Quentin had not gone in his favor. Mainly because Quentin had died. Horribly.  
Gascard was about to join him.  
She could see him, running in those ridiculous Orlesian clothes with a staff bouncing on his back. They were gaining on him, foot by foot.  
Hawke couldn't resist. She yelled out after him, “There's nowhere to run, DuPuis!”  
Shortly after that she realized why Varric told her not to say things like that. DuPuis ran straight into the Chantry and Hawke was fairly certain she couldn't murder him inside there.  
Not to say she hadn't used the Chantry as her own private murder house before but that was when it was dark and without any witnesses. Right now the Chantry would be filled with people doing prayers or chants or...honestly she wasn't too sure what went on there during the day. She mostly just stared at Sebastian's butt.  
Her Red Iron mercenaries came screeching to a halt when they arrived at the Chantry door. Hawke didn't. She threw open that heavy door and slipped inside.  
“Gascard! You can't hide from me! Well, you can but I'm going to eventually find you and set you on fire. Oh, hello, Grand Cleric. What are you doing here? I mean, you do work and live here--”  
“Sanctuary!” Gascard DuPuis was standing in front of an altar and was repeatedly shouting “sanctuary” in case Hawke hadn't heard him the first seven times.  
“Oh, shit.” Hawke exchanged a glance with Elthina. “Can he do that?”

Cousland clasped his hands together and stared at Kirkwall's Champion for a long time. Finally he said, “Your statue looks nothing like you.”  
“I know. My ass looks so much better than that.” The two of them were sitting in the Captain's cabin of the ship the Warden-Commander was paying to sail to Ferelden. “But that's neither here nor there. Let me finish telling the story of how I became an apostate fugitive, then a Champion, and then back to an apostate fugitive again.”  
He raised a single finger, took a minute, and then told her, “I'm starting to understand why you need to leave Kirkwall, but I can't just let you on this ship. I'd be taking a large risk on my part.”  
“Maker,” Hawke groaned. “Dammit, Cousland. Fine.” She slammed her palms on the Captain's green table. “Give it to me. What do I have to do?”  
“I think you know.”  
She didn't. Until, “I have to be a damn spy? I'm going to be shit at that, you know that. Only thing I'm worse at is keeping family members alive...sorry, that was dark. Shouldn't have said that.”  
“You shouldn't have.” Cousland left the table and examined the captain's many superfluous knickknacks. Hawke did this too and moved everything slightly to the left. “This is your only option, Hawkling.”  
“Not my only, but it's my best.”

“Sanctuary!”  
“Get away from Andraste and die like a man,” Hawke snarled, already removing her father's staff from her back. “Avert your eyes, Grand Cleric. I'm about to make him scream like a little girl and no one wants to see that.” Hawke started advancing upon the altar.  
“Halt, Champion.”  
“Maker All-mighty!” Her knuckles tightened around her weapon. Why did she have such terrible luck. “Whoever's trying to order me around needs to know that this man is a necromancer and a dick and deserves my blade in his throat.”  
“Champion.”  
“Fine, since you keep insisting I'll take him outside first before I do it.”  
“Champ-”  
“I said I'd take it outside!”  
But evidently even that promise wasn't good enough because a second later a metal gauntlet clamped down on her shoulder. Maker, she could recognize that heavy handed grip anywhere. “Knight-Commander, I see you're here for your daily prayers. Was kind of hoping you'd be out witch hunting or still at the Circle or something but now I see that was too much to hope for.” Why was Meredith here? She had just talked to the Knight-Commander this morning.  
Meredith's steely gaze assessed the situation in seconds. “This is the blood mage you've been tracking?”  
“That's the one,” Hawke agreed. “He's the one I told you about this morning. Now, ah, let me deal with him the only way I know how.” She jerked herself free and started back towards the altar. “With a lot of stabbing.”  
By this time her Red Iron mercenaries had made their way inside and were lining the walls, arms brandished and ready. It was all surprisingly organized.  
Gascard had ceased begging for mercy and was now shooting lightning at Hawke as she dodged and ducked behind pews. The lightning only ceased after Meredith barked an order and whatever templars she had stashed in there came out of the damn woodwork.  
In an effort to counterattack Gascard's randomly thrown spells, Hawke raised her staff and miraculously...nothing happened.  
Panicked she tried again, waiting for the lightning to leave her fingertips and travel from her arm and through her staff and hopefully into her intended target. That did not happen. And it became clear why. Meredith's templars had smited Gascard, removing his magical abilities temporarily, and Hawke had caught some of the backlash. Thankfully she was familiar with fighting without her magic from her Ferelden apostate days. She sprinted up to Gascard who was collapsed against the statue of Andraste. Grabbing him by his stuffy, fancy collar she tossed her father's staff off to the side and brandished the small dagger she had ripped off some skeleton in some cave off the coast. Almost immediately she held him at length. “Maker, you smell terrible.”  
And once again she was kept from doing what she wanted by Meredith. “Thank you for apprehending the mage. We'll--” There was a vague gesture towards Meredith's surrounding templars. “--take him to the Circle. If you'll just hand him over.” Hawke, if she didn't already know better, could have sworn she saw Meredith smile. “I appreciate this chance to show Kirkwall that we are on the same team.”  
Maker, that made her want to gag. Meredith stepped down from the altar and, without looking behind her, “We'll take him together. Follow me.”

Cousland had started slowly sipping at a draught he kept around for headaches. “Let me guess...you weren't a good little Champion and didn't take the mage to Meredith's precious circle?”  
“Nope.”  
“Are you regretting that decision?”  
“Nah.”  
“Well, at least there's that. Now continue.”

For a moment, as much as it pained her, Hawke considered doing as Meredith had proposed. Anders certainly wouldn't approve. He preferred that mages that made such a horrific, bad name for the rest of them were disposed of quietly. Not paraded through Hightown like a Orlesian circus. Really, how hard would it be to just hand the bastard over to Meredith? She'd probably make him Tranquil. Eventually.  
If only Gascard didn't smell so horribly. Hawke was not sure she could handle being so close to him for so long. Wait...the smell, though awful, was weirdly familiar.  
She knew what it was.  
Hawke reached for the ornate satchel at Gascard's waist and tore it open. A hand fell out. A single, unattached hand. Before she could say anything to the bastard he spat at her, “You left his books in that sewer! All that research, it could have gone to waste--”  
“And you made sure that didn't happen,” Hawke sneered in contempt.  
Meredith was saying something very authoritative that the two mages ignored. Gascard tried pulling away from her. “Of course. Quentin's work was almost complete. That experiment with your mother was a disaster, however--”  
“What did you say?”  
Meredith ordered her men and women to take Gascard away from Hawke, a smart move if they had tried it while their holy smite was still in effect. It wasn't. A quick mindblast bought Hawke a little more one on one time with Gascard. She was really curious as to what he had to say.  
“Quentin's experiment failed because,” Gascard's face was entirely too close to her own, “your mother was weak.”  
Hawke slit his throat.  
There was absolute silence in the Chantry, even the monotone chants had ceased.  
“I immediately regret that decision.”

“So.” Hawke had laid out everything on the table. “If I take this job I'm going to be the worst at, you'll let me hide out in Ferelden?”  
“I know that I should say no. I know that, but I'm going to say yes.”


	15. Home, Sweet Home?

**Chapter 15: Home, Sweet Home?**

She regretted killing Gascard. Wait. Strike that. She regretted the consequences that followed after killing Gascard. Being chased by Meredith's templars out of Kirkwall's Chantry certainly wasn't the first time something of that nature had befallen Hawke and if she had anything to do with it it wouldn't be the last.  
“How long do you think it'll be until Meredith lets me go back to Kirkwall?” Hawke rolled over, groaning. The sea made her sick so the majority of the trip she spent locked in the captain's cabin, having taken over what was supposed to have been Cousland's bed. Cousland sat at a desk nearby, unfinished documents lay unattended to. Reading while the sea rocked them back and forth had only succeeded in giving him a migraine. Or Hawke had succeeded in giving him a migraine. Either were very likely.  
“Why would you want to?”  
A fair question, Hawke supposed. She moved to lay on her stomach in order to glare at him better. “Oh, I don't know, maybe because my friends all live there? If you want me to be your spy--”  
“Correction; I don't want you to do anything and you're not 'my' spy.”  
“Regardless, if I accept--”  
“Correction; you already accepted.”  
That's going to get annoying. “When I do this 'spy' thing, wouldn't it be easier if I was actually in Kirkwall to do the spying?”  
The look he gave her let her know he had already thought this through days ago. “You have friends still in Kirkwall. Let them report to you. That is generally how a spymaster works. They don't do the field work--”  
“I like the field work.”  
There was something odd about this smile; it seemed genuine. “As do I,” Cousland agreed. “But things change.”  
She reluctantly considered things as he had. “I suppose if I convinced Aveline and Varric to help me. I could take Aveline's boring, straight to the fact report and Varric's complete bullshit and just make them meet somewhere in the middle.”  
“Now you're talking like a politician.”  
“Am I supposed to hate myself this much.”  
“It comes with the territory,” he snorted. “It's a damn nuisance.”  
Hawke sat up quickly and crossed her legs. She was only wearing one sock. “And you dragged me into this, Cousland. Thanks for that.”  
She almost thought it was a trick of the light, but, no, it happened. Cousland's winked at her. It was striking to see that in such a serious and weathered face and not in someone like, say, Isabela.  
“Oh no.” Hawke had a thing for winking. When Isabela had thrown a wink her way after they had killed Hayder (in the Chantry, Hawke remembered) the only thing that had stopped Hawke from hitting that up was the fact Varric had caught her trying to sneak by his room in the Hanged Man to meet up with her. If she recalled correctly she had gotten out of that one by acting lost and speaking in somewhat fluent Orlesian. Still was not sure how that had seemed like a good idea at the time.  
Anyway, the bastard had winked at her and now had that half-assed smile he wore when he felt it was required. Hawke openly stared at him until it became uncomfortable for all involved.  
Finally she asked quietly, “What do you think I should have done?”  
They both knew that that was pointless to ask; nothing could be done differently now. But he answered anyway. “You should have stayed and made your case to Meredith until she saw you were right.”  
“Was I right?”  
“It does not matter if you were right. What matters is that you are perceived as being right.”  
He was a noble's son. There would be no forgetting that, especially when Cousland made such troubling remarks. Eager to move on to a new subject, Hawke searched for a nearby distraction. “Uhhh,” she eloquently put, lifting a bottle of the Captain's stolen rum. “Want to get drunk?”  
“Oh, yes.”

 

Hawke had stood on the ship too long after they had docked in Amaranthine. Cousland was aware of what she was doing; she was stalling. He supposed he should handle this gently, returning home for the first time in years was bound to be difficult.  
“Move your arse.” Cousland grabbed a hold of both of her shoulders and shoved until she stumbled down the ramp connecting the ship to the pier.  
She stammered, “What's the rush?” Why was he so pushy? Couldn't give her one measly minute? Hawke knew once she stepped foot on Ferelden soil there would be little chance she'd (if Meredith even allowed it) be ever able to make herself return to Kirkwall.  
And there it was. She stumbled face forward in an anti-climatic gesture and literally ate dirt. Or snow. Dear Maker, it was snowing. She hadn't experienced that in a long ass time.  
“I am not one of your underlings!” Hawke dramatically slammed her fist on the ground for much needed emphasis. “You cannot treat a champion this way! I killed my way to this title and I--”  
“You're also calling attention to yourself.” Yet Cousland still stopped to drag her to her feet and start tugging her along again. “Come on, Hawkling. There's a Warden company in town and we're going to march back to the Keep with them.”  
“March? I'm afraid I lack the coordination to march in step.”  
He was unapologetic. “So do most of these farmboys. You should see your brother. I've heard stories.”  
“Shit.” That's right. That Warden Stroud must have taken Carver to the very place they were going now; Vigil's Keep. She wasn't sure how Carver would feel about a surprise visit from his favorite sister by default. Actually, she knew. He'd hate it.  
Cousland had led them to a large regiment of Grey Wardens in uniform and had immediately started giving orders. Hawke followed him around, lost and trying to pay close attention to whatever was going on. At least she tried to follow along. His dog, Moira, was doing her best to keep Hawke away from her master.  
“I don't want to sound paranoid but I think your dog hates me.”  
“Probably does. She's very protective. Was not at all pleased when she found out you were coming home with us.”  
“Well, that's just--” Shit. Shitshitshitshit. “I left my dog. Rebel's never going to forgive me. I can't believe I left him! He's probably pissing on everything!”  
“Your dog is not well trained.” He sounded indifferent but, being Ferelden and knowing how important a hound can be, Cousland sent her a slightly sympathetic glance her way. Then it turned actually sympathetic. “You're shivering.”  
“My tongue is freezing to the roof of my mouth, of course I'm shivering!”  
Cousland placed an arm around her shoulders in a display of chivalry she did not appreciate. “Get your arm off me and get me a damn coat.”

“This is not the coat for me.”  
Evident from the Champion's clearly voiced displeasure, Aedan's taste in women's clothing was less than sufficient. Granted what he had given her had been all that he had.  
It was a warden's uniform. One of Sienna's extra uniforms that had survived the journey to be precise.  
“I understand it's not your 'signature' color--”  
“Obviously. Blue just doesn't hide bloodstains as well as red does. That's basic fashion design, Warden.”  
“It's all we have. Adapt.” He led her to the company he previously mentioned. They were already in ranks; Cousland shuffled her to the back and stuck her in ranks behind some lanky fellow. “Just follow this man and watch his feet,” Cousland instructed her, pointing to the warden in front of her. “Try not to step on his heels.” To the warden in front of Hawke Aedan said, “She's going to step on your heels.”

Hawke scowled as Cousland walked up to the front of the ranks, she presumed to take lead. She presumed wrong. Someone else held up the front and Cousland rapidly made his way to the back. He stopped off to the left of their ranks and waited. She didn't know what for and was about to ask until the woman up front shouted, “Wardens, atten-shun!” Everyone else around her snapped to attention while Hawke was left standing there loosely and with bad posture.  
The next call was, “Forward, march” and suddenly they were moving. Hawke stumbled after them, her eyes downcast and attempting to fall into step with everyone else. She discovered it was much harder than it looked and instantly felt a pang of sympathy for her brother.  
Someone was barking out 'left' which Hawke assumed meant she should be stepping with her left foot at that time and that was something she was definitely not doing.  
“A hostile situation.*”  
Now someone was singing? What even was the military? As Hawke struggled to keep pace, the rest of the wardens echoed, ““A hostile situation.”  
Ah, she was supposed to be singing, too? Hawke looked to Cousland for explanation and quickly found more questions. She found out who was singing.  
Aedan was marching and called out next, “Started up again.”  
Another echo from the rest of the wardens before Cousland sang out again, “Then the bloody darkspawn. Then the bloody darkspawn.”  
“Invaded Ferelden. Invaded Ferelden.”  
Hawke jumped along with the resounding “HEY!” the wardens yelled out.  
“Men at waaaar, men at waaaar--”  
Cousland could sing? No, that couldn't be right. He was the 'drink in thoughtful silence type', not the 'join in with tavern songs when everyone got a little too drunk' type.  
“Late at night when you're sleeping emissaries come a creeping all aroooouuunnnd...a creepin' all around! HEY!”  
And clearly she was wrong and continued to be wrong as the Warden-Commander's voice rang out above all the others.  
“They came to find their wounded. They came to find their wounded. ”  
“They came to claim their dead. They came to claim their dead.”  
“Hear the Arch-Demon coming. Hear the Arch-Demon coming.”  
“It's hummin' over head. It's hummin' over head.”  
“HEY! Men at waaar--”  
There were three more verses of this, all of which Hawke listened to in total disbelief.  
Why had he kept this from her? To think, she could have been teasing him about this all this time.  
Hawke decided to make up for lost time. Unfortunately, as usual, Cousland was unembarrassed and listened to her jests patiently and without emotion.  
He really knew how to take the fun out of everything.

“I need paper. And ink. And rubber seal of my own. Something classy. And subtle, but not too subtle, you understand?”  
Aedan wished that just once Hawke could ask for a favor simply, with maybe a little groveling and without all these unnecessary adverbs and adjectives. “Marian, we're still half a days march from Vigil's Keep. Believe it or not but I do not have the time to design you your own seal.”  
“Not with that attitude.”  
Most of what she says is just white noise. “Are you writing a letter?”  
“I need to let Rebel know where I am. And also Aveline and Varric.”  
“If you think that's best,” he responded noncommittally. Personally he thought Hawke should wait on that communication. However, it was her choice and she rarely welcomed his opinion before on serious matters.  
She frowned. “I can tell you think I'm wrong but I want you to know I'm prettier than you.”  
“That has absolutely nothing to do with anything.”  
“Sounds like something the second prettiest human in the camp would say.”

Varric Tethras was doing as he did best; he was spreading rumors. Rumors that the Champion's act of blatant defiance of Meredith in the Chantry was really the Champion being overenthusiastic.  
He knew Meredith did not care that Gascard had died, it was the 'how' of it that bothered her. Bothered her, drove her madder than she already was...ah, he'd get the phrasing right eventually.  
His rumors were working, albeit slowly. Even eyewitnesses were starting to question. Overwhelming evidence had been found on Gascard's person. Few of the common folk sympathized with a dead necromancer with detached limbs in his pack, regardless of where he had been killed or by who.  
Rumors, however, were not going to convince Meredith. Logic and reason rarely convinced Meredith, Varric snorted in contempt. His endeavors would be indubitably more successful if Hawke were still in Kirkwall. Which she wasn't and her friends were starting to worry. After all, she had left Rebel behind and there were few situations Varric could imagine (and he had a vast imagination) where Hawke would purposely abandon her hound.  
Worst of all, Meeran and some of his personal guards had taken up residence in Hawke's estate, claiming the mansion had been part of a secret agreement. Varric had argued but faced with no other options he was forced to move Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal out and into Fenris's lovely, though decaying home.  
Aveline had lost her mind. She was certain Hawke had not vanished under her own designs and had half her guard out everyday looking for her in rather unsavory places. Merrill had turned to her mirror for comfort, Sebastian was trying his damnedest to handle the Chantry fiasco, and Fenris...  
Varric didn't want to go into that.  
“Hawke, where are you?”  
He received a somewhat vague answer a few weeks later.

Dearest Varric,  
As you may well know by now, I fucked up. Don't worry...actually please worry I'm panicking as I write this. I might not be back in  
I won't be back in Kirkwall for a while. Take care of Rebel for me; I had to leave in a hurry. A few of Meredith's more enthusiastic employees ignored orders and chased after me.  
Anyway, you'll never guess where I am! Well, hopefully you will because I'm afraid to say in this letter exactly where. Hope you're a good guesser.  
I'll send another letter soon. Tell the others not to worry.  
Except you. Worry. I'm frightened.  
Sincerely,  
your bestest and most problematic friend (also the warden likes to sing--please spread this like wildfire)

He had to put the letter down for a long time before Varric left to find Aveline.

 

If she had to pick only a single word to describe the Warden's Keep Hawke would have to go with “fortified”.  
Vigil's Keep was large and foreboding and, Hawke presumed, just the the Warden-Commander liked it. The Keep had it's own stables and there was a blacksmith throwing a fit in one corner. And the courtyard was filled with practice dummies and equipment and wardens.  
“You've been expanding,” she remarked because Cousland was staring her down and waiting for a reaction. She knew he was expecting her to be impressed and try as she might she could not honestly disappoint him. “I had heard there were only three Grey Wardens left, counting the king, when you fought the Arch-Demon.”  
“Increasing our numbers has always been difficult. There's little glory seen in becoming a warden now, after the Blight.” Cousland stood next to her and stretched. “But there will be time for a our later. I had word sent ahead to your brother of your arrival.”  
Her stomach sank quickly. “Oh, you did.”  
“The report back stated that he will be mildly pleased to hear from you.”  
Mildly pleased? That was a start. “Are you exaggerating?”  
“Have I ever?”  
She couldn't recall. “Fine, Cousland. Let's meet Brother Dearest.”  
“No.” He shrugged in silent apology. “I have too many other things to attend to. I'm back home. My vacation time is officially over.”  
She was incredulous. “That time back in Kirkwall was your vacation? You actively sought out darkspawn to fight.”  
“And that was the highlight of the trip. But now I need to speak to my second-in-command.” He patted her awkwardly. “Good luck with your brother.”  
“Luck has never been my family's strong suit.”  
He nodded and headed back to his Keep. “As for mine.”  
It was when Cousland left that Hawke realized she didn't know where she was going.  
After a few awkward encounters she finally found someone to escort her to one of the Keep's libraries so she could wait for her brother. Her escort assured her they would bring her brother to her as soon as possible. An hour later Carver found his sister passed out in a library chair.  
Carver was in full dress uniform and Hawke felt the strangest pang of emotion swell up in her chest. She sat opposite him in the warden's mess hall.  
“Sister.”  
“Brother.”

Nathaniel barely noticed when Aedan entered the office. He was shuffling through papers and humming absentmindedly to himself. Aedan rapped lightly on the door and said, “Good afternoon, Warden-Commander.”  
The acting commander never looked up. “The reports will be down in a minute. Have patience as I instructed earlier.”  
That was not the welcome Aedan had anticipated. “Nathaniel, it's me.”  
“Aedan?” Nathaniel coughed and immediately dropped what he was doing. “My apologies, I've been--”  
“Believe me, I know,” Aedan shook his head with a grin. “This job is a nightmare.”  
Nathaniel chuckled darkly in agreement. “You're taking it back. I hope you realize that.” A moment and then, “Shit, I have some...news.”  
“I don't like that pause.”  
“A wedding invitation was sent to Vigil's Keep a few days ago.”  
“What do you mean you received a wedding invitation?”  
“The Couslands and the Mac Tir's are uniting their families. Next month. Your presence has been requested immediately.”


	16. Road Trip

**Chapter 16: Road Trip**

She wanted to tell Carver Mother was proud of him, that father would have been proud as well. But she knew where that would lead. Mentioning either parent would cause this conversation to spiral even further downward.  
Hawke, instead, assured him that she'd be moving on soon. His visible relief struck her, though it was expected, when she announced that. He needed to hear it, though, and she knew that.  
Carver called out her bullshit easily. He had years of practice. “You said that about Kirkwall as well and you've been there for years.”  
“I think you know that I say a lot of things that I don't follow through on.”  
“Like when you said you'd write,” he pointed out glumly and looking away.  
She was shocked. “I didn't think you wanted me to.”  
“I wrote to you and I got nothing back,” he pointed out with his usual frown.  
“I assumed Mother had guilted you into it.” Shit, now she had done it. She had said the “m” word. Cringing, she waited to have her failure thrown back into her face.  
“You could still have written back.” Miraculously, Carver deigned to mention Leandra. Perhaps he had said all he had wanted to about the subject during the Qunari attack. Carver wasn't exactly a poet in any sense of the word.  
Hawke shrugged in apology. “I could have done a lot of things.” Carver snorted in contempt until his sister added, “You boss calls me the “little Hawke”.”  
It was the first time she got her brother to smile in a very long time.

Aedan had taken up his office again, trying to readjust everything back to the way it had been before he had left. But it didn't feel right. Trying to settle back into routine, at that moment, seemed counterproductive. And that put him in a foul mood.  
He was interrupted; Hawke knocked on his door frame as she walked in without announcing herself. “Cousland, what now?”  
“What do you mean?” She sat down on his desk and crossed her ankles. Aedan nudged her away. “Now you will report to Arl Eamon. Or to his equivalent in Denerim.”  
She wasn't pleased with that answer. “How do I get there?”  
Aedan laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them. “Marian, when you asked to stow away on our ship for safe passage to Ferelden, I said yes.”  
“With some conditions.”  
“But I am not in charge of you nor am I your baby sitter. My business with you ended when you accepted the job. I will arrange transport for you to report to Eamon or whomever he's placed in charge of this spy network.” He was... peeved. That was the word for it. And he normally wasn't one to take his problems out on another (unless they were darkspawn) but he could feel his bad mood slipping into this conversation. “You'll have to depart immediately. Whatever happens after that is entirely your call. I don't have the means to keep inoperative personnel--”  
“Inoperative?” she echoed in disbelief. Hawke hopped off his desk quickly and turned around, angry. “I don't want to stay permanently, but Carver's finally willing to talk to me. Without blaming me for something every five minutes.”  
Aedan was not unsympathetic. “I gave you time with your brother for that very reason. But having you here is dangerous to my men and the Grey Warden's reputation. If Meredith decides to retaliate I don't want you anywhere near here. This will not concern us.”

“You're worried about your reputation?” Her voice was too loud. While she had to admit Cousland's logic was sound, it always was, she could not understand why he was acting so callously. It occurred to her that he might be like most nobles, sweet when they needed something and...  
Snorting, Hawke laughed that thought away. Cousland could never be called “sweet”. He was too honest, Ferelden, and stubborn to play those little games. “Were you worried about that when you had Anders here against templar orders? Or when you had a damn corpse walking around?”  
“Those were different times, but my rules have not changed. Idle hands have no place here.”  
There was nothing, only Hawke staring him down in disbelief. She took a few steps towards the door, paused, glanced at one of his bookshelves before she cut it down with a swipe of her staff. Hawke turned back. “What are we?”  
Cousland said nothing. She glanced at the fallen books and various other small items. “I don't disagree with what you are saying, more as how casually you can say it. I had thought we were friends, at the very least.”  
His head dipped and then fell onto his desk for a second. “I apologize. I don't take back the words I said--”  
“You are shit at apologies.”  
He wasn't in the business of making apologies, she knew that. “--but I understand that how I said them upset you.”  
She wasn't buying it. “Stop that. I don't care that you're “sorry”; I want to know why you're being an arse. To me. It's funny when you're doing it to other people but not when you're doing it to me.”  
The confession came out in a monotone. “My brother is marrying a politician. Or I am. The wedding invitation was strangely unclear.”  
“Your family is weird.”  
“And this means I have to go home.”  
“I burned my family's home down when the darkspawn came through.”  
He tried to ignore that. Tried. “My issue with...actually, before that, I already hate asking this, but--”  
“I burnt it down because I don't want some ugly darkspawn touching my stuff. Now keep talking.”  
Cousland looked very unsatisfied with her answer. “I can't go home. For reasons I don't care to discuss.” He peaked a glance at Hawke's expression. “But it looks like I'm going to have to discuss it.”  
“You're damn right. You have other bookshelves I can destroy if you need a little motivation,” she threatened.  
“That's unnecessary.” Hawke knew he was pausing to think very carefully about what he needed to say next. “I'm told you have experience with the fade.”  
“I'm a mage.”  
“I am aware.” He exhaled deeply. “Your friend, the elf warrior, you had experience dealing with spirits infesting his home when you first met?”  
“Varric really needs to find a new hobby besides telling my entire life story to everyone.”  
“And how did you handle that?”  
Brutally honest, she replied, “I almost died, like, four times.”  
“So you agree when spirits cling onto a place it's not the ideal situation.”  
She caught on. “So your home--”  
“Highever Castle.”  
Hawke could tell he hadn't meant to correct her. It irked her nonetheless. “You continue to make it very hard to like you,” Hawke seethed and went on. “Your castle, you blue blooded prick, has been infested by spirits? Did I hear that right?”  
Cousland's face looked strained. “There's a bit of a catch to it.”  
“Oh, I don't like to hear that.”

Marian Hawke was the least 'mage-y' mage Aedan knew. She didn't use her magic unless her life or the lives of others were at stake, nor did she study the arcane arts nor did she have any real interest in it. Aedan almost believed if Hawke had a choice and she did not like being able to electrocute people at will so much, she'd give her powers up permanently.  
So when he explained what he thought was going on at his former home, Hawke stared at him, eyes squinting and appearing to look like she understood what he was laying down.  
“These manifestations only appear when you are present?”  
Cousland nodded. “Either I trigger their appearance or they feed on whatever energy I'm giving off or--”  
She stopped him there. “Look, if you're asking me what's going on in your haunted mansion--”  
“Castle.”  
“--I cannot help you.” She leaned back, shrugging. “I'm not someone who sits around making wild theories about magical situations I cannot see; I'm more of a reaction force, if you will.”  
“Are you saying you want to come with me and see for yourself--”  
“Why do people,” she huffed, pointing a finger at him comically, “always assume that when trouble arises that I want to rush over there and poke it with a stick?”  
“Is that a 'no'?”  
Sighing for a very long time, she shook her head slowly. “Get me a big enough stick and I'm yours.”

Aedan and Hawke were saddling horses when the Champion's brother started getting his own horse ready. Aedan simply raised an eyebrow at her in question. She sniffed, looking away, “I don't want to go to this wedding without someone I know.”  
He felt a little ignored. “You know me.”  
“Someone I can easily trick into letting me hide wedding cake in his trouser pockets.”  
“I see your point.”  
While they were 'chatting' (Aedan hated chatting), Nathaniel entered the stables and froze, shocked by what he saw. “Why are you two packing? Are you personally taking the Champion to Denerim? ”  
“You read my wedding invitation, Nathaniel. You know I have to go home.”  
Now Nathaniel had even more questions. “I thought you couldn't do that.”  
Hawke strode up to him, smirking and oozing a mad sort of confidence. “That's why I'm tagging along. I'm sort of a fade expert,” she bragged.  
Nathaniel looked skeptically from the commander to the Champion. “Have you ever been trapped in the fade by a talking darkspawn and a dead baroness?”  
“What? That's not real.” She chuckled for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Something terrible is going to happen, isn't it?”

Varric looked at who had all assembled. And was slightly disappointed.  
He understood why some of their ragtag company could not help in this little search and rescue mission. Aveline was Guard-Captain, she had duties she could not leave unattended. Anders had his clinic and Sebastian was afraid to leave the Grand Cleric alone for so long. That left Varric with Isabela, Fenris, and Merrill.  
He had a team and he now, thanks to Hawke's letter, he knew where to look. She had mentioned the Warden which led him to conclude that Hawke had followed him back to Ferelden. He loved Hawke, she was his best friend (after Bianca) but the woman needed to learn to be a bit more subtle.  
Varric knew if they could track down the Warden they would quickly find Hawke. Luckily for the rest of them neither the Warden nor the Champion were at all skilled at being incognito.  
Fenris interrupted his thoughts and made Varric realize he had been staring silently at a map for a good half hour. “What do you need us to do?”  
He was almost afraid to say. “I'm going to need Isabela to steal a ship.”  
The pirate's smile was truly terrifying.

They rode along to coast to Highever; Cousland in silence and Hawke stopped every few miles to bitch about the weather. And her outfit.  
“I am not a Grey Warden so why am I dressed like one?”  
“I do not have an abundance of women's weather gear at my disposal. It's this or freeze. And at any rate, you blend in this way.” This was the third time she'd ask this and the first time he explained.  
She was shivering, had been shivering for the past hour. “I'm starting to realize why I stayed so long in Kirkwall.” Hawke fidgeted, turning around in her saddle to glance at their escort.  
They had left Cartier behind with a promotion as the Grey Warden's head horse handler. Sienna was placed in charge of nothing, but she was given a new set of robes as reward for her service. And also as a sort of bribe to persuade her to accompany them to this wedding to help Hawke in any fade related matters they would indubitably encounter.  
The elven babe, whatever it's name, was also left at Vigil's Keep. It was too cold for a baby to travel safely but she knew while Cousland said he planned to take it to the Denerim orphanage he always made this face as if he really wasn't completely taken with that idea.  
Their escort this trip was made up of Ohgren (why was Cousland taking him to a wedding?), her brother, Carver, and some other wardens she did not know. There was also a sullen looking person wrapped in so many cloaks and scarves that Hawke could not determine it's gender.  
She pointed. “Cousland, who is that?”  
There was a very long pause which Hawke took to mean that he didn't even know. “That's...my squire?” He said it as a question, not something he did often or ever.  
“I didn't know you had a squire.”  
“It's fine. She's so quiet I forget she's there at all.”  
Hawke was, however, not quiet.  
“Is Nathaniel your best friend?”  
He looked taken aback. “I don't think you know how juvenile that sounds.”  
“You two wear matching outfits.”  
“You know what Nathaniel does on long rides? He carries on in grim, brooding silence. It's his best trait.”  
“I know you said purple was your favorite color, but if you had to pick a second--”  
“Grim. Brooding. Silence.”

“Why are we stealing a ship?” Merrill asked entirely too loudly. Varric shushed her while rubbing his temples to help combat the migraine that had been forming for a while now.  
He had no idea how Hawke did it, babysat them all. He was used to sitting back and watching the show, not being the one in charge, the one having to answer every mundane questions asked. It was honestly killing him. Well, maybe not honestly.  
Merrill continued, “Why don't we pay for passage?”  
“Because,” Fenris answered for Varric, giving him a much deserved break, “Meredith is still looking for Hawke and we don't want it openly known that we are going to Ferelden.”  
“And, besides, isn't this so much more fun?” Isabela asked, her eyes scanning the docks and searching for her perfect target.  
The question was directed to Varric. “Do I look like the leader of this merry band of misfits—oh, Maker's breath, I'm starting to sound like Hawke. I've gone too deep.”  
Merrill interrupted his midlife crisis. “Yes, but are we giving the ship back?”

Cousland forced them to stop at an abandoned homestead still a few miles from Highever. When Hawke demanded they continue on if only to end her boredom, Cousland didn't argue with her which was very odd. Arguing was the basis of their relationship.  
Instead Cousland sat down hard on a makeshift bed and ordered their horses be tied up outside. He ripped off his scarf and Hawke was surprised to see how much their trip had taken a toll on him. “Cousland, I know you're getting old, but you shouldn't look this poorly.” She only received a half-assed glare. Maker, he really was sick.  
Hawke knelt next to him. “You are sweating,” she observed, frowning. He shouldn't be sweating in such frigid weather, they both knew that. Hawke's brow furrowed, but her hand was steady and calm when she felt his forehead and then quickly drew back. “You're burning up, Cousland. We need to get you to a healer right away.”  
He disagreed. “No, this happened last time. Whenever I get close to Highever I can feel something draining me, trying to get at--”  
“Then you shouldn't go any further.” Trying to figure out their next move, Hawke couldn't help but think that if Anders were here she'd feel so much better, so much braver. Damn, she had only been gone a short while but she missed them all like crazy.  
“I can't stay here,” he protested lamely.  
“Then stay somewhere better, safer, yet still nearby.” Hawke stood up, dusting her knees off. “But this will only get worse if you continue on to Highever.”  
“What are you suggesting?” He was too ill to guess whatever she was trying to get at.  
“I scout ahead. See what we're up against; I'll take your mage with me.” She shrugged. “It's only after you, you said so yourself. So I'll either take care of it myself or I'll figure out who can.”  
“You make it sound so simple,” he coughed, paling even further. “You get three days before I move on regardless of the conditions.”  
“Fair enough.” It really wasn't. He was just irked at being left behind. “I want Carver, too.”  
“Done.” He would have agreed to anything at that point. He was falling asleep on the spot.  
Hawke called Ohgren inside and relayed the plan. The party would split up, leaving Ohgren and the squire in charge of getting Cousland somewhere warm and far enough away from Highever Castle that he wasn't being fed on by whatever was in there.  
They parted ways, unhappily. Hawke was no longer dripping with overconfidence. She hadn't expected this spirit or demon or whatever to be able to affect them at such great distances. And she wasn't too thrilled at having to announce herself at this wedding seeing as she wasn't technically invited.  
“You get yourself into such nasty messes, Sister.”  
“Carver, why do you think I brought you along for?” she huffed, struggling to get her horse to move the way she needed it to. “You hold the dustpan and I'll take care of the broom. Like always.”


	17. Something Old

**Chapter 17: Something Old**

Had they all not been wearing Grey Warden attire, Hawke had no idea how she would have gotten them into Highever. As it was, they were welcomed inside the castle grounds quickly and enthusiastically. They had barely finished getting their horses taken care of when a man stumbled wildly inside the stables. He was without a coat or any other cold weather gear and three of the Cousland's guardsmen were chasing after him, each waving around a hat or scarf as they ran.  
“May I help you?” Hawke asked, bewildered and unable to keep her voice from cracking as it rose.  
The man glanced about wildly before he found the source of the question. “Is Aedan among you?”  
Hawke leaned into her brother and muttered in confidence, “Who the hell is Aedan?”  
“The Warden-Commander.”  
“I knew that.” To the man Hawke responded, “Cousland's on his way. Just a few days behind.” Lying came too easily to her now. “He sent us ahead to...” Shit. “Aid in any preparations needed.” Carver kicked her; she knew the last thing her brother wanted to do was help plan a wedding.  
“Ah.” He looked let down and Hawke didn't know what to do for him. The guards had caught up to the man and threw a cloak around him.  
One of the guardsmen huffed, out of breath, “Teryn Cousland, it's too dangerous to be outside in this weather without--”  
“I am aware.” It was an exasperated statement. Fergus Cousland wrapped the cloak tighter around him and left without another word.  
An impressed shout from behind him stopped him cold, “This is coming from someone who's spent a lot of time recently with your baby brother...so you're the pretty one?”

She had single handedly, with that inane comment, earned them a sit down with the Teryn of Highever. The rather nervous and panicking Teryn of Highever.  
“My brother, he does know that it's not him getting married?”  
Hawke gave him a shrug in return, which she was almost certain was not the proper protocol when responding to the requests of a Teryn. “Your invitation made that very unclear. But he is coming, regardless of which one of you two are walking down the aisle.”  
“Are you sure? Then I can guess why he's delaying.” Fergus had been pacing, back and forth and it was starting to strain Hawke's neck in her efforts to keep up. “I can only think of one reason why he would send the Champion of Kirkwall, a renown mage to our family home.”  
“How do you know that? And renown mage? Have you seen my healing spells? They actually make Anders cry.”  
“Is this the same Anders that...? Nevermind, to answer the first part, my bride-to-be and I recently attended an affair with Lord Cyril and his father and that is how I recognized you. He described you quite vividly.”  
“Ew.”  
“But am I correct? Aedan sent you here to deal with--”  
“Whatever hocus pocus nonsense is taking place here. My brother and I hunt ghosts. It's sort of like a family business.”  
Fergus looked skeptic. “I've had mages who have studied extensively at the Circle come here and investigate. Unless Aedan is here to-to trigger it, whatever demon is at play here stays silent. Can you do different then them?”  
“It will definitely be different,” Carver muttered snidely.  
She kicked him discreetly. “I'm always up to try new things.”  
“You said you've done this before.”  
Her smile faltered. “I talk too much. Don't listen to me. Just...let me do my thing.”  
Fergus looked less confident by the minute. Carver dragged her out before the Teryn lost all faith in their abilities.  
Ah. It was just like old times.

The rest of the wedding guests had yet to arrive which gave Hawke free reign of the castle. She roamed the halls, searching for any place where the Veil was thinner than it should be.  
She knew what had happened here, everyone knew what had happened. The Howe family had betrayed years of friendship with the Couslands in a single night of nondiscriminatory slaughter. Only Aedan and another warden that was now long dead had escaped that night. So much blood shed could attract demons, Hawke supposed. Actually, it was odd that there weren't any obvious signs of spirits or such.  
Her fruitless search brought her into a series of private chambers. Snooping around would get her in trouble, normally, however, today she had the perfect excuse. Ooh, sorry, ser, for going through your underclothes drawer, but I was searching for demons.  
“What are you doing?”  
Hawke whirled around and despite her former talk, looked sheepish. She was faced with two women, one human and one an elf.  
“I was, uh, looking for your underclothes-no, demons. Demons. Hold on, belay that. I've mucked that up. Let me try that again. I'm Marian. Currently a mage under the hire of the Grey Wardens. And I'm not going through your underclothes drawer.”  
The human looked vaguely disgusted while her maiden spoke for her. “This is Lady Anora, former queen of Ferelden and future teryna of Highever.”

 

Maker, Aedan hoped Hawke would end this soon. And, perhaps even more so, he hoped that it was Fergus marrying Anora. Nothing against the woman, she was a skilled politician and ruthless when it came down to it. Begrudgingly, Aedan had to admit, she was rather like himself in many aspects and that may have been precisely why he disliked her.  
And, honestly, that not so friendly trip down to Fort Drakon's dungeons she had caused him did not help the status of their frigid relationship.  
She had to have hated him, too, after he had promised her a throne and then taken it away from her.  
Turning to her and adding, “Now we're both liars,” must not have helped, either.  
This is why all of your friends are glorified serial killers or worse...no one else can put up with you.  
This little break was giving him too much time to think. Shortly after Hawke and her borrowed crew had left, he had passed out. Only to wake up much later in some minor knight's home east of Highever. The lady of the house had sentenced him to bed rest, leaving him nothing to do except an old chessboard with a few makeshift pieces.  
Eventually, out of options, Aedan forced Ohgren to play a game with him and was shocked beyond belief when the damn dwarf won.  
“Ohgren, do you even know what game we're playing?”  
“I have no idea what's going. Why are we playing with tiny dolls? Is this a surface thing? Playing with dolls?”  
Aedan stared, left eyebrow twitching, before he slowly and deliberately tipped the chessboard over.  
Hawke, you'd better be having more luck than I am.

 

Carver was in the kitchens, having a quick lunch he begged from the cooks, when his sister plopped down next to him and stole some of the sweetbread he had been given. “Heard you were sweet talking the chef, brother,” his sister teased, winking at the servants eavesdropping.  
“You heard wrong.” He went back to his meal, irked at her presence until he noticed something odd; she had stopped eating.  
“Why is that door boarded up?”  
Carver knew she wasn't directing that question at him. That wouldn't make any sense; this was his first day here. He followed her gaze, regardless, and found the cellar door(he assumed it was a cellar at least; it had all the makings of one) she was indicating.  
She continued, “I don't like that door.”  
He looked carefully at her. “You're being strange.”  
“Too mage-y?”  
“No, just strange.”  
After a few minutes of contemplative silence, she returned to eating and chewed thoughtfully. “I met the former queen just now.”  
He knew better than to question the things that happened to his sister and yet he still did. “How?”  
“She accused me of stealing her smalls.”  
“Right. Forget I asked.”  
“Already have.”

 

Fergus wasn't surprised that all of her efforts had turned up nothing new and Hawke didn't bother to mention the strange feeling their kitchen cellar had given her. The feeling hadn't been a strong one, might have been just a cold draft for all she knew. So she reported nothing, only that she would try again in the morning.  
The teryn personally showed her to her new quarters. She was shocked and slightly turned off by how ornately decorated it was. As one of the servants unpacked her things, Fergus explained the room choice to her. “I gave you my brother's old room. I thought it might...help.”  
“I know your brother. This isn't his room.”  
“We've made a few changes,” Fergus admitted.  
“There is a giant portrait of a man in here. It's eyes are following me.”  
“That's my brother.”  
“No.”  
“He's changed since then.”  
“He had so much hair.”  
Preoccupied elsewhere, Fergus wasn't in the mood for idle chatter. He left quickly, wishing her better luck in the morning. She felt like she had let him down somehow, and she had, but she wasn't certain how to contact whatever spirit was after the Warden. Normally when a spirit was within a ten mile radius of her it soon sought her out and tried to murder her. Hawke didn't know what to do with this silence, this disconnect.  
She doubted much would change in the morning, but after she turned Aedan's portrait around so it faced the wall and she didn't have it staring her down, Hawke went to bed.

She awoke soon after.  
Her bed was damp with sweat and it took her too long to realize she was shaking.  
This room was suffocating, Hawke thought and left her too warm bed. Once she was out of the bed she continued on until she was out of the room. As a mage, sleep took her, willingly or not, to the fade. Normally such trips were uneventful, but not this night.  
She had dreamt of Mother again, only this instance was worse. She never found Quentin in time. He and Mother were gone lone before she ever got to that damned underground lair. It was surprisingly worse than finding her mother a living corpse. Not finding her at all.  
After some brief wandering Hawke eventually made her way to the kitchens and started rummaging through the pantry, it was a good hour before one of the servants heard her and tried to stop her. She was on her fourth pastry by then.  
Ignoring the servants protests, Hawke continued eating and asked her, “So, how long have you been working here?”  
The girl stuttered, glanced around for a bit, before answering slowly, “I was hired when the Teryn returned from Ostagar.”  
“You've been here a while then.” Hawke picked up another cake, ignoring the girls increasingly louder protests, and ate it anyway. “Got any idea why the cellar has been nailed shut?”  
“We don't talk about that.”  
Hawke's smile stretched so wide it nearly hurt. Finally she was getting somewhere. “That's what I like to hear.”

His illness was passing and Cousland could only assume this was a good sign, though he normally knew better. Perhaps Hawke with her unorthodox knowledge of the fade had done what the Circle could not. Or, perhaps, had done what they would not.  
Blood magic. If Hawke had used it he only hoped she hadn't stabbed anyone too important.  
He called for the lady of the house. “Ma'am, we'll be leaving tomorrow when my fever breaks. Thank you for your hospitality and if you haven't received one already expect an invitation to stay at Highever.”  
She seemed concerned. “Are you sure your fever will break by then?”  
“We're leaving on the morrow.”

Hawke had no idea what inspired such loyalty in the Cousland's staff but she knew she needed to break it.  
She had pulled out all the stops; money, promises, threats... She had even resorted to using her magic to convince the servant girl to tell her about the boarded up cellar. And that was what worked. Never underestimate country folk's superstitions. They believed anything.  
“Tell me or I can make you.” Could she? Probably. Would she? Probably not.  
The girl didn't know that. She stammered quickly and angrily, “The teryn's brother ordered it the last time he visited.”  
Aedan ordered it? “When was that?”  
“Years ago. Before he stopped visiting.”  
“Did he give a reason for the order?”  
“No. He grew ill last time he was here and he said it in his sleep quite frequently until the Teryn ordered it to be so.”  
Neither Aedan or his brother had thought to mention. It could have been a simple mistake, with a wedding on his mind Fergus's attention was obviously elsewhere.  
Hawke made disgruntled, thinking sounds until, “May I go now, Lady?”  
“Oh. Yes. Go on.” Hawke waved her away before she yelled after her, “Ah! Tell no one we spoke!” The girl was definitely about to tell half the castle what had just happened. Hawke only hoped Fergus wouldn't be too angry with her.  
She decided to leave the cellar alone for now. Most of the staff were starting to wake up and she wanted to work alone. Instead she'd try meditating. The fade wasn't her favorite place but she was out of ideas. The spirit didn't want to fight on this plane. She'd have to meet him halfway.

Carver had been up for hours when she asked him to watch over her as she slept. The castle's atmosphere was clashing with his sleeping patterns as well. Hawke woke up Sienna and inquired about her general feelings about Highever. After Hawke tuned out the swear words she got a halfway decent opinion. It, unfortunately, was the same as her own and therefore no help to her. Hawke made the mage meditate with her anyway.  
Fifteen minutes in Hawke came to the realization that this was not for her. When sleeping had a purpose she found she simply couldn't make it happen.  
“Hey.” She tapped Sienna's foot, eyes still closed. “Hey, are you asleep yet?”  
“She is.” Hawke was met with her brother's disapproval when she snuck a peek. “Why aren't you?”  
“You wanna sing me a lullaby?”  
“I'm up for a promotion soon. You had better not change that.”  
She cracked her neck and shook her arms out in preparation. “Don't worry about it. Creepy fade dreams here I come.”

 

“I can't believe she left Rebel behind,” Merrill muttered again, her pale hands tightly wound in the mabari's fur. The elf disliked the ocean nearly as much as Varric did. Only Isabela was having a good time on the small clipper they had hijacked.  
The crew they had stolen along with the ship was probably having the worst time of the bunch. “Ser dwarf,” the most outspoken of the men asked, “Are we going to get paid when we get you to Ferelden?”  
The rest of Varric's companions suddenly grew very quiet. Varric muttered as they avoided his glares, “Being friends with all of you is getting to be very expensive.”

She was being shaken awake by her brother. Hawke squeezed her eyes shut, though she was now very much awake, and tried to pull away. “Don't look at me!” It came out more like a shriek than a demand, as she had hoped.  
Bethany.  
What was this spirit after? First Mother and now her fallen sister? If the being wanted to make some sort of deal, as most demons did, it was going about it entirely the wrong way.  
She could hear Carver calling out to her amidst the roaring in her ears. No, she couldn't look at Bethany's twin. Not just yet, with the image of an ogre still fresh in her mind. “I need a minute.”  
“She hasn't woken up yet.” Carver left his sister and moved over to Sienna. “Why are you awake and she--”  
Sienna startled them both by suddenly drawing in a sharp breath and then repeating. Her arms flailed and she succeeded in smacking the Hawke siblings both at once.  
“She's hyperventilating!”  
Hawke stared at her brother. What did he want her to do? She was no healer. “I don't... I could slap her in the face a few times... I'm really not equipped to handle this.”  
Sometimes Carver looked at her like he should have been the eldest. “Well, don't hit her.”  
Sienna settled down on her own mostly, though her breath still wasn't regular. “What the fuck was that?”  
Hawke nodded. “I agree.”  
“I mean,” Sienna clarified while wiping sweat and drool off her face, “I've never encountered a demon like that before. I've never even read about whatever the fuck that was.”  
“You did a lot of reading back in the Circle, did you?”  
Sienna stared at Hawke and exclaimed, “Why are you taking this so lightly? This is unprecedented! A demon of this kind has never been recorded--”  
“Look,” Hawke explained gently, “I never have any idea what's going on in the fade so I never panic. It's a working system.” Suddenly curious, she asked, “What happened to you back there?”  
Uncharacteristically quiet, Sienna answered, “I used to mouth off--”  
“Used to?” Carver finally found something to add to their fade-filled conversation.  
“--and once it got someone else in trouble. I had to watch it again.”  
The Hawke siblings exchanged glances. It wasn't a very helpful glance. “Sister, what did you see?”  
Your deceased twin. It was with a practiced grin that Hawke said, “Nothing at all.”

“My brother will be here very soon.”  
Hawke watched Fergus pace before she had to look away. He was making her tired. “Cousland, wait, Aedan gave me three days. I have two more days left.”  
“He'll be here tomorrow. I know my brother. It's killing him to let someone else do his dirty work.” Fergus sat down heavily. He and the Champion were alone in the main banquet hall. Alone with very gaudy, and possibly of Orlesian origin, wedding decorations. “You haven't learned anything new?”  
“New? Oh, yes, but useful? Not very and I'm not feeling up to talking about it so can we switch topics?”  
“Lady Anora mentioned that the two of you met.”  
“So back to this fade nonsense.”

 

“Can this blasted ship go any faster?” Fenris had never been particularly known in his new circle of friends for his patience. He had had too much of the virtue when he had been enslaved by Danarius. Now? It was mostly nonexistent.  
Isabela leaned her back on the ship's railing and shrugged. “Without making a deal with the local demons...no, she can't go any faster.”  
“I'm not surprised to see your good humor hasn't been effected.”  
“Grouching about it will certainly find our girl faster, no doubt.” Isabela decided to stop teasing him, though his complaining had taken a special toll on her today. “Look, Lanky. Until we reach land there's nothing you can do to make us find Hawke any faster. Once we hit the shore, though,” Isabela added with a wink, “you'll be our best shot at tracking her down.”  
“She's right, Broody,” Varric chimed in. “Hawke's desperate. We know she traveled with the Warden, but we don't know where they parted ways.”  
Merrill asked from over Varric's shoulder, “Could they still be together?”  
“Doubt it. By this time Hawke would have made one too many puns and pissed Cousland off.” Varric “And she knows she'll be harder to find alone, rather than marching around with a mess of Grey Wardens.”  
Fenris agreed with that. “But when has she ever done anything with logic or reason?”  
“With templars after her, I think she may surprise us,” Varric warned.  
She didn't.  
Days later when their crew reached Amaranthine's shore they discovered that a woman of the Champion's description was last seen marching around with a mess of Grey Wardens, presumably to Vigil's Keep.  
Only Varric was still optimistic. “Well, now we know where to start.”


	18. Something New

**Chapter 18: Something New**

She was absolute shit at mixing potions but, with Sienna's help, Hawke was able to throw together a rather strong sleeping draught before the day's end. During her most recent trips to the fade Hawke hadn't learned anything useful about this demon because she forced herself awake before the experience grew too intense. Years of being an apostate on the run made her a light sleeper.  
This potion would change that.  
With it she would go to asleep and stay asleep, whether she wanted to or not. It was a dangerous ultimatum she was giving herself, though all parties involved knew it had to be done.  
It tasted terrible and Hawke wished she had paid more attention to the few times Lady Elegant had attempted to teach her herbology. She wished she paid more attention in general.  
“Carver,” she turned to her brother and raised a glass filled with sleeping potion to him. “If I never wake up from this the estate falls to you. Like when we first came to Kirkwall it is currently filled with mercenaries you're going to have to get rid of first. Sort of promised Meeran he could have it. It's not on paper, though, so it'll never hold up in court.”  
“Why should you make things easy?” There was a pause before, “Are you certain about this?”  
“Aedan's expecting results. This is the best way to get them.”  
He frowned more deeply than usual. “Yes, that's what I don't understand. Why are you even doing this? We're not being paid, you barely know what you're doing--”  
“To be fair, that's a good description of most of the jobs I do.”  
“He's not a nice person, Sister. He's playing on your suicidal willingness to help people.” Carver was being overprotective. It was so cute Hawke wanted to pinch his cheeks and coo. She would have if it wouldn't get her punched.  
“Oh, he's made that perfectly clear,” Hawke countered and took a huge gulp of potion. “Maker, that tastes awful. Why does lyrium taste like this? It looks like it should taste like blueberries.”  
Carver's sigh was unnecessarily drawn out. “Then why are you bothering with this?”  
“Listen.” After drinking the rest of the draught, she climbed into bed and tucked herself in. She knew he expected a long, wordy explanation but all he got was, “I'm working on that.”  
“Sister.”  
Bethany used to say that with the same degree of exasperation when her sister had tried to set her up on dates. Even Hawke herself had to admit that sometimes, most of the time, the exasperation was called for.  
“Goodnight, Carver. If anything goes wrong go find the other mage girl. Quickly, if you would.”  
“I mentioned that I don't agree with any of this?”  
“Of course you did.”

Hawke sneezed. The fade sort of tickled and so she sneezed, though it was very unnecessary. Her eyes were closed. She had been in the fade twice now and whatever spirit was at work here had forced her to relive her mother's passing and then her sister's. As far as Hawke was concerned this couldn't get any worse.  
She was often wrong.  
Eyes open and she wished she had kept them shut.  
Her legs were rooted in the ground. Hawke struggled to move, to make some progress, but she was stopped bothering when she heard her mother's voice.  
“You're hurt! Let me help you. My daughter knows some clever people that can help you, I'm sure of it--”  
“Not fair,” Hawke hissed, falling to her knees. She never had to watch her mother get taken away by Quentin in real life, why should she have to watch it in the fade.  
The fade. This wasn't real. Hawke forced herself to turn away from the vision of her mother helping that sick necromancer limp away. She instead turned to the image of Bethany being slammed repeatedly into the ground by the largest ogre she'd ever seen.  
Not real. It's a lie. It happened, but it isn't real.  
Hawke ignored this demon's attempts to distract her and worked on freeing her legs. A few minutes (she assumed it was minutes; time worked differently in the fade) of focused willpower on her legs eventually freed them.  
She immediately began to run. She wasn't sure where she was going but the demon's only attempt to stop her was a blight stricken version of her brother, one that Stroud had refused to help. “You did this!” the thing cried.  
“Blaming me even in the fade, Carver?” Hawke jerked away and kept on jogging. “Pretty convincing, but no cigar.” While she was running, searching, the scenery around her gradually changed until what was once bleak, with glowing rock and empty sky and little else turned into something irritatingly familiar. “Demon!” This would be so much easier if this blighted demon would just try to kill her already. “Do you mean to kill me with homesickness? You'll be expected to try a bit harder than that!”  
Her shouts did nothing to halt this demon's current state of action. The fade transformed into Lothering, or what it had been before the Blight in Ferelden. The city itself was empty; Hawke moved past that. Despite knowing this was a dream, despite knowing this was demon made, there was something Hawke wanted to see.  
“Home, sweet home,” she whispered even as she realized that the small house and accompanying shed were no longer that.  
She didn't recall their place in Lothering being so small, but she supposed it had to have been. An mansion full of empty rooms had caused her to grow accustomed to a lot of open space.  
She took a quick couple of steps back, suspicious. Hawke stepped backwards into something cold yet living and when she spun around, her fingers grappled to find purchase on her staff while she found that all that she had been running from had caught up to her.  
Mother was back and not in that terrible white dress Quentin had placed her in. She was dressed as she always had, prim and proper and eloquent. It would have been normal if she had not been holding her own head in her hands. Leandra offered it to her eldest. “That man took me apart. Put it back.”  
That was highly impossible, even for a somewhat experienced blood mage. Hawke kept moving, trying to put as much distance between herself and her deceased parents as she could.  
“I tried. I--” Hawke stopped. It was pointless arguing with apparitions. The demon at work here was trying very, very hard to make her forget that, to forget these people were only empty images.  
It was almost a full family reunion. Carver and Bethany had finally shown up again. “Why did you take me with you?” Carver demanded, his face and eyes rotting from blight. “Why couldn't you leave me to find my own way? You took me into the Deep Roads to die.”  
“But you didn't.” Why are you bothering to argue? What was this? She knew she had to do something or she'd wake before she'd even find the real cause of all this. Before Bethany's image had a chance to speak Hawke used her will to blast her cozy family circle away from her by a good ten feet.  
“But he didn't?” It was hard to miss the hovering, cloaked figure that appeared so out of place in a Lothering homestead. It held a book, some sort of tome that the demon hugged close to it's chest. “One out of four? I would hardly call that cause for celebration. I know that you do not.”  
“Got ya,” Hawke muttered and weapon raised she turned to face this skinny, pale demon. “Was wondering when you'd grow a pair and show up. Not that this hasn't been fun, but it hasn't.”  
“Do not speak to me so,” it hissed, shuddering with suppressed anger. “You are not my intended target. I would not waste my true strength on you.”  
“Well,” Hawke shrugged, not at all disappointed that she was being ignored, “that'll make this much easier.”

 

It was dawn when the Warden-Commander nearly kicked down the door to Ohgren's door. Ohgren let out a startled shout and tumbled comically out of bed. The two wardens that shared the room with him merely groaned with displeasure. One of them muttered, “Looks like someone's feeling better.”  
“You said we were leaving at noon,” the other complained and fell instantly silent when his commander stopped near his bed. “But first thing in the morning is better even.”  
“I think it's still tomorrow,” the first whispered, his voice still dry from sleep.  
Aedan yanked the covers off the two beds that still held wardens. There were protests of the cold air that he deftly ignored. “I have not felt the demon's influence for some time now. We should move now while we have an opening.”  
“I thought we were attending a wedding,” Ohgren asked, looking outright ridiculous in the nightgown the mistress of the house had given him.  
“We are. Unfortunately. It suddenly occurs to me that I have no outfits suitable for a Ferelden wedding. And if I wear what I wore to the Champion's banquet someone's going to point it out.”  
“That's lady talk you're spouting there, friend.”  
“It also occurs to me that you do not possess such clothing.”  
“You sodding stay away from me.”

 

Hawke rolled out of the way, crouched down and moving until she was able to duck behind her old house. That demon had a frost spell that was vicious. It was either get out of the way of that deadly frost beam or enjoy being frozen for a considerably long amount of time.  
“What are you?” Hawke asked (yelled) over the sounds of exchanged spells and hexes. “You're almost like a despair demon, but not quite.” She peaked around a corner, trying to get a visual on this beast. Something that wasn't a curse came flying at her and Hawke barely avoided being struck by her own mother's decapitated head.  
Knowing this was only the fade did nothing in the face of such horrifying images. Could one vomit in the fade? If so Hawke was really close to doing just that. This whole situation was unnerving. If this creature had taken her by surprise into the fade, into his domain, she would not be able to tell what was real from what were only his tortures. She was having trouble keeping a focused mind as it stood.  
Tired of these games, Hawke covered herself with a quick barrier and ran out from behind the building. She fired lightning without thinking, aiming vaguely where she had last seen the demon hovering. She completely missed. But by less than she had expected.  
The demon was using the spirits posing as her family, sewn together Mother, blight stricken Carver, and ogre crushed Bethany, to fight against her. “Do you see what you have done? Look closely!”  
As Hawke recognized the emotion that was flowing through her she knew what kind of demon they were dealing with.  
Her barrier was nearly gone; she'd have to make a move now.  
She charged forward, using another mindblast to throw the spirit images of her family away and leaving her clear to face this demon alone. Ducking under the beam of ice and cold that was being directed at her, Hawke switched her grip on her father's staff, and, using it instead like a pike, she thrust up at the cloaked demon's heart.  
She missed. But by less than she had expected.  
A few inches left of it's heart, her staff pierced it by a good six inches. Hawke twisted the bladed staff until it slipped free and watched the demon fall, landing on his bare, over-sized feet. “I know who you are after, but that doesn't mean I'm someone to be underestimated because I'm not the glorified Hero of fucking Ferelden. Wait. That makes it sound like he's the hero of fucking Ferelden. It's a country. That's not possible.”  
The demon had gone easy on her and thank the Maker that it had. Hawke wasn't sure how this was going to go if it had taken her seriously. Coming off as a sarcastic jackass came in handy more often than she liked to admit. It was much, much quicker to defeat someone who thought you weak or foolish than one who knew how strong you could be. Thus the act. The Arishok had been the first adversary she hadn't been able to deceive so.  
Ignoring the demon's weak threats and curses, she went in for the kill.  
Hawke woke up to find her brother and that mage Warden staring worriedly down at her.  
She sat up and immediately slammed her fists on either side of her bed. “Shit! I almost had him! Who the fuck woke me up?”  
It was then that she saw there was a crying servant boy sitting in the doorway. “I dropped a pitcher, mum. I swear I didn't mean it. I knew you were doing important work and I was sweating and--”  
She stopped him. If there was one thing she wasn't prepared to handle it was crying children. “It's all right. I'm clumsy, too. And usually when it really counts. Like this did. Wait, shit, I didn't mean to say that.” Her words failed to stop his crying and she simply sighed and looked to her brother. “You were never this difficult. You more of made people cry, not did the thing yourself.”  
“The same has been said of you,” Carver pointed out begrudgingly.  
To the serving boy Hawke ordered, “We're going to discuss some scary magic business now so run along. And please stop making that noise. Maker's sake, someone get him a handkerchief.”  
Someone must have retrieved him because the crying sounds grew increasingly quieter.  
Carver rounded on her. “I need a report. What happened? Were you successful?”  
“As I am in all that I do, I was successful.” Somewhat. She tried then to get out of bed but her dearest brother held her back. “You let me go or get me a chamber pot now because I went to bed with a full bladder and I--”  
“Maker,” he let her go in disgust.  
The Warden's mage had been sitting patiently for the past few minutes and really that was her limit. Sienna abruptly cut in. “Hey! Is this fucking demon a problem or not?”  
Hawke blinked a few times before her eyes narrowed and she answered stiffly, “No.” It was slightly a lie. Actually, that was a lie. What she had said before was a very, very big lie. She had not killed the demon but it was weakened critically. Deciding to save that information for the man in charge, Hawke continued with, “I'll discuss more with the Teryn and then your commander. If you want more information--”  
“If it matters the Warden-Commander will let me know. All I wanted to know was whether it was safe for us mages to take a nap now.”  
The siblings were now alone and Hawke was squirming with a terribly full bladder. She was trying to recall where exactly the privy was.  
Her brother didn't ask immediately because she knew he didn't want to know. A few minutes later he decided he needed to know. “Did you find out what sort of demon was it?”  
His sister was struck silent and Carver flinched. He almost wanted to take the question back and leave it to the Couslands, but when had he ever liked leaving things to nobles? Hawke quietly answered him, “It feeds off human guilt.”

 

Aedan was overcome with that fatigue that accompanied the end of an illness. It was a struggle to even keep himself upright on his horse. Several times his head had bobbed and the only thing that woke him back up was the sensation of vertigo from nearly falling off the saddle. Ohgren noticed and had the common sense to avoid saying anything. His other men, men that had never traveled with their commander before, tried to baby him. Aedan quickly corrected that.  
They stopped at Highever's Castle gate. It took them a long time to actually get inside. Hoping to reach the castle as quickly as possible Aedan had simply announced himself as the Teryn's brother, instead of any of his other titles, but he had not been able to visit Highever for some time and the gate guards failed to recognize him. When he tried to explain that they were Grey Wardens he was told that the Teryn already had some.  
Aedan could feel his left eyebrow twitching and if he didn't set this guardsmen straight now it probably wouldn't stop.  
He said a few words, made two grown men cry, and threatened conscription if he wasn't surrounded by fools before somebody said, “From what Teryn Fergus has said, this is without a doubt his younger brother.”  
Not particularly happy about that, but choosing to ignore it, Aedan led his men inside. He sent them to the stables to take care of their steeds and to rendezvous with the others while he strode to Highever's castle.  
He stopped short of the fireplace that resided in the main hall. This was the first he had seen his home without the haze of a fever or some other fade cursed sickness afflicting him.  
Overall, it was not what he had expected. No, that was wrong. It was what he had expected and that was the whole issue. Highever was unfamilar and cold and filled with people he did not know and did not know him.  
A serving boy asked if he was lost. Aedan nodded and moved on.  
Perhaps Highever did not feel as he had hoped, but the demon or spirit that had haunted him was now gone. Hawke had managed to do what he and a handful of Circle mages could not.  
He shuddered to think how much he'd have to pay for this. Aedan was thankful that the Champion's Merchant Prince was not there to help her negotiate for her reward.

 

The Teryn was less surprised than Hawke would have thought. Fergus wasn't as concerned about the how's or the why's. He was focused mostly on the end result which made this all so much easier. As she sat in the Teryn's main work chamber, in his over-sized chair by his own insistence, Hawke was really not at all sure what she should be doing with her hands. She was trying to go over what had happened but Fergus kept pacing in quick circles around her.  
“You're making me a little nauseous here, Teryn.” She was going to break her neck trying to keep up with him. “Can I just--”  
He stopped roving enough to slam his palm against the wall. Hawke jumped, certain that he somehow knew that she hadn't managed to actually finish the demon. When he looked up, however, she realized that the action had been one of delight and not of anger. “Champion, I don't need to hear the details; I've seen the results. My brother arrived this morning and I've never seen him look near as healthy.”  
Maker, she wanted to tell the man the damn truth! Why wouldn't he let her? It wasn't something she did often; he was in for a once in a lifetime experience. “Your brother is here?”  
“Yes, I'm early.”  
Again Hawke jumped. She hadn't heard that quiet voice in only days but it seemed much longer. Hawke didn't want to think about what that meant.  
She felt someone move behind her and stop at her chair, placing a heavy hand on the back of it. Cousland, the one that used to be the only Cousland in her life, was there; tall, grim, and looking well. The last was significant due to the fact the last time they had seen each other Aedan was unable to leave his bed.  
She had stared at him too long; Cousland gave her a wink (damn him, he must have noticed his last wink had affected her so) and went to embrace his brother. It was then that Hawke wondered how long he had been standing in the doorway before he found the right moment to barge into their conversation. He seemed so smug about it now and she just had to.  
It was a struggle to not break into giveaway laughter. “I had heard that you always come early, Warden. Heyyyy,” Hawke laughed triumphantly and jumped up to high-five Fergus Cousland with more enthusiasm than was reciprocated. On the bright side, she did get a surprised, deep laugh out of the Teryn.  
Aedan looked at them blankly for a long time. The other two shirked under his gaze in between extremely childish giggles. Then, “I abhor one of you. I'll let you two figure which one yourselves.” His lack of a sense of humor hadn't changed. “Hawke I'll talk to you about a reward later. And I want the details of how you killed this demon. I haven't been affected by it's influence as of yet and normally I cannot be within a hundred yards of this place. We will talk when you're in a more professional mood.”  
“The end of the world is it.”  
“In an hour. I have to brief my people first.”  
Hawke sank down into her chair and waited as the two brothers exchanged a few words before Cousland went out the way he snuck in.  
She shook her head at Fergus. “Why does your dear brother have to say “abhor”? Why can't he just say “hate?”  
“He's always been a little--”  
“Pompous.”  
“Pretentious.”  
“I don't think that's much better.”  
“No, it isn't really, is it?”  
The Champion decided she liked Fergus Cousland. He was less intense and serious than his brother and had better jokes. Meaning he actually had jokes. She was going to hate disappointing him.  
Ah, but who was she used to disappointing already? Hawke choose to take her leave of the Teryn, neglecting to share the real fate of the demon with Fergus.  
She was saving that for Aedan.

Hawke was tramping down to the armory, looking for Aedan, when the broke-a-pitcher-when-it-mattered-most boy stopped her by tugging on a cloth piece of her armor and digging his heels into the stone walkway. “Wait! Wait!” He was incredibly loud for such a small child.  
“Hush!” She was suddenly thankful that the Warden had found that elven child before her. She did not possess his patience with children.  
“There's someone here looking for you!” He was still shouting.  
After failed attempts to shoo him away with her hands, Hawke asked, “If it's someone in warden armour I'm looking for him, too.”  
His little dirty face looked confused. “This man was wearing a dress.” He pointed up, towards the battlements. “He's up there now. But he said he needed to see a scary woman that sometimes forgets to comb her hair. It's okay,” he sympathized quickly, still afraid he was in her poor graces. “Sometimes I forget, too.”  
Damn, she needed to check a mirror very soon. The child was standing there, looking at her expectantly. Unsure, Hawke reached into her purse and dropped a few coins into the child's hands. He looked even more confused. He asked, “Did I do good?”  
“Yes,” she said after too long of a pause. Hawke slowly reached out and patted his head. She knew she should have been better at this; after all, Carver and Bethany were many years younger than she was.  
He ran away without saying anything which was weird. Children were weird.  
Deciding not to dwell on it, Hawke searched for a way to get to the battlements without having to find a bloody grappling hook or a ladder.  
The man in a dress turned out to be a man in mage robes. “Well,” Hawke said with a smile. “I have no idea who you are.”  
“I know.”  
“That doesn't make anything any clearer.”  
“I've been following you since Amaranthine.”  
And he waited until now to approach her? Perhaps he did not want the wardens to become aware of his presence. The man must be rather skilled if Cousland's scouts had not picked up on him as they were marching to Vigil's Keep. “Andraste's tits, I really wish I had told someone that'd miss me that I was going to be up here with you.” She moved around so that if need be she could just push him over the side of the battlements. That was her motto. Always be prepared to be murdered.  
The mage had a hood pulled down to cover his face. “Before you left Kirkwall you had a disagreement with Knight-Commander Meredith. She sent a detailed account to each of the Circles--”  
“And they want to kill me? Also, why do you care what happens to me?” Maker, why was it so cold?  
“You have a friend in the underground. He asked us a long time ago to keep watch for any reports with your name in it.”  
Anders. Aw, that was sweet of him, though slightly alarming. Anders seemed to be more involved in the mage underground than Hawke even knew. “And what do the other Circles say about the little Chantry incident?”  
“Most believe you did what any templar would have done.” She visibly gagged at that. “Other's think that it's Kirkwall's business. You are the city's Champion, not simply an apostate like the man you killed. It's not a matter of what you did, more of how you did it.”  
“Give it to me straight. How many people want to kill me?”  
“Most that know Meredith know she's simply upset at having her toes stepped on. Others...”  
She didn't like that pause. “Shit. What?”  
“By running away from Kirkwall and back to your homeland...it makes you look guilty.”

Maker, Hawke wished Varric was here. He'd know how to turn this around. Would he, though? Would anyone? She had left Kirkwall in such a rush that she had left her dog behind and her home filled with Meeran and his mercenaries. Granted she hadn't had time to give the actual deed to Meeran, but it seemed he was making himself at home regardless. She just prayed he stayed out of her room and especially that one drawer...  
She had given Anders's mage friend a few sovereigns for his trouble and sent him away. What was she going to do?  
Oh, Meredith, I just went to Ferelden for a bit of vacation. I know it was poor timing but--  
She was a decent bullshitter, not the best, Varric held that title, but even she couldn't sell that story. Sighing and giving up on, well, everything, Hawke settled herself down in the first empty room she found (the library) and waited for either Cousland to find her of for whoever he sent after her to find her.  
When Cousland finally did show up he showed surprise at her current location before he immediately began complaining. “I said one hour, did I not?” He took the book she was currently reading. Or using as a pillow, depending on how you looked at it.  
“You're not my commander, Commander. I don't take orders from you.” Hawke was still trying to figure out how to make it seem not like she had run for her life but that fleeing to Ferelden and stabbing someone in the Chantry were completely unrelated. It was not going well. Most people claimed to be able to think better in a library but the only thought running through her head was, 'damn, someone needed to dust in here'.  
“It looks like you do. You are in warden armour,” he pointed out casually, taking a seat at the table as well.  
She glowered up at him. “If you think I won't strip down in front of you, right now, just to prove a point--”  
“Then I haven't been paying attention?”  
“Exactly.” Nervous, she started chewing on her pinky nail. “What did you wish to discuss?”  
“Your reward.” Suddenly Cousland stood up and motioned for her to do the same. He held his hand out, waiting.  
Unsure what he wanted, Hawke took his hand and shook it. She felt very undeserving of the gesture and even more so when he tugged her closer and gave her a brief one-armed hug like he had given his brother. Uncharacteristically, Hawke turned stiff as a board, not daring to breathe as she waited for it to end. Cousland let her go quickly but the hand that had pressed against her back came to rest on her shoulder.  
Maker, was he smiling? Cousland took a breath and said as sincerely as he was able, “You did my family, especially my brother, a great service. I heard Fergus laugh today. Granted it was at my expense but do you know how long I've been trying to do that? Make him laugh?”  
She replied too honestly, “You're not very funny.”  
His grin turned wry. “Be that as it may, my brother hasn't looked better.”  
He said the same of you. These siblings really cared for each other. It was different. Carver would kill someone for her but say the words “I love you, sis”? Blights would come and go before that happened.  
Her stunned silence failed to go unnoticed. Sensing her discomfort, Cousland went back to their original topic of conversation. “About your payment, then?”  
He was waiting on to choose a reward. Hawke did not know where the words or ideas came from but they spilled out, unbidden, in a rush. “I want a formal invitation from your brother to attend his wedding. I want a copy of said invitation sent to Kirkwall and dated as if he had meant it to arrive weeks ago. Before--”  
“Before you left.”  
“Stop interrupting. I also want you to spread word that I was hired to kill a demon for you and that I succeeded. Make it sound like you begged me to leave Kirkwall to aid you in this quest. Be really convincing.”  
He looked surprised, no, more of shocked. It was a little insulting. “Are you trying to pull some kind of political stunt to save your skin? I'm impressed.”  
“Don't patronize me!” Hawke shouted, her voice nearly breaking with the effort. Someone in another end of the library hushed her. “Shit. Sorry.”  
Cousland cracked his neck and asked quietly, “Is that all?”  
“That's all,” she repeated and then cringed. “Wait. One more thing. About the demon. It's, ah, not actually dead.”


	19. Why Is Murder Our First Choice?

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**  
**Dragon Age 2**  
**Chapter 26: Why Is Murder Our First Choice**

* * *

 

“How is murder going to help exactly?” Varric wasn't against popping a few bolts into bodies, but Hawke's plan seemed, ah, detrimental to everything she had done thus far. If she had planned to kill the Warden from the get go she didn't need to wait for their help. Evidently Cousland was laying helpless in bed, mentally trapped in the fade by some guilt demon. Taking him out would be a relatively simple task. All Hawke really needed was a good, firm pillow.  
“Well, sit down, ladies and gentlemen and also Varric, because you're about to receive an education.” Hawke waited for everyone to actually sit down and all she got were a bunch of unamused glares. “Fine. I'll explain it anyway. Now remember when a few of us went into the fade to help that Dreamer boy? Hate to bring that up again but do you remember what happened when I had to kill the pair of you? You woke up, safe and sound, and out of the fade. If you were mages it would have been very, very different but that's neither here nor there. Cousland isn't a mage.” Her friends could now see where she was going with this and not a one seemed for it. “I get in there, the fade, and kill Cousland...no more problems. Demon can't feed off him anymore and we can get the fuck outta Highever. It's a happy ending for everybody! A bit anti-climatic, perhaps, for Varric's taste, but...”  
“And what if, kitten,” Isabela drawled, her tone joking but her words serious, “what if that big brute ends up killing you?”  
She was awfully calm about the whole thing. “I'll be Tranquil.”  
Isabela sighed for a long time. “Yes, I guessed that and I feel like you should be a tad more concerned. This man we're talking about killed the Arch-demon, remember?”  
“I've heard that, yeah.”  
“And if he kills you you'll be one of those--”  
“Tranquil,” Hawke repeated firmly. “Which, if that happens, Maker forbid, you'll have to kill Cousland. Won't have a choice at that point and we have to cut off this demon's power source somehow. Oh!” She perked up as if suddenly remembering something important. “You'll have to kill me, too.” Hawke laughed. “I do not want to live on as Tranquil. Can you imagine the smug look on Meredith's face? Ugh!”  
Her plan was not well received. “Then why don't we simply kill him now? Why risk... This isn't a plan,” Fenris argued, standing and allowing Isabela's arm to slip off him. “This is idiotic.”  
“Why can't it be both?” Hawke shrugged. “Besides, I'll be fighting him in the fade. That's more my territory than the Warden's.”  
Isabela raised a single brow. “I? Don't you mean we'll be fighting the Warden in the very spooky fade? You're not going to go this alone.”  
“She has a point, Hawke,” Fenris added bluntly.  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Hawke took a step back. “I am definitely going alone. What if this demon pulls the same shit that Pride and Desire demon did back in Kirkwall. I can't fight a war on two fronts, if you understand my meaning.”  
“Ouch.” Varric sided with a now shameful Fenris and stated so openly. “I don't think you've been getting near enough sleep, Hawke, if this is what we're resorting to. Maybe the elf has a point.”  
Hawke's eyes flashed angrily and she hissed through her teeth, “No, I'm not going to be known for murdering the damned Hero of Ferelden. No, thanks. How does Aveline say it? Not while I breathe.”  
“Excuse me?” Merrill piped up, raising a hand and waving it about to attract everyone's attention. “Perhaps, Hawke, you should let me look around. The Dalish might--”  
“Right!” Hawke interrupted brightly. “I'll need you to recreate the Dalish ritual your Keeper used back in Kirkwall. You're basically the most important part!”  
Merrill's hand slowly lowered. “That really isn't what I meant...” Varric patted her arm sympathetically. “We know you tried, Daisy.”  
Hawke had headed for the door and was motioning for all of them to follow. “I need to check on a few things, give a couple orders, bust a few ranks...it's all a little surreal, being in charge, but Anora said if I didn't fix this people would assume I was responsible. Or that she would make sure people assumed I was responsible. It was all very unclear.”  
She left and her friends lagged behind a bit further than they normally would have. Fenris found his way to Varric's side in a matter of seconds. His words were a rushed, bitter whisper. “We're not going to let her attempt this suicidal--”  
“Hey, I'm on your side on this one, Broody.” Varric watched Hawke wander down the halls of the Cousland's castle. While, he guessed he'd call that walk wandering rather than stumbling back and forth while attempting to look in control. “I think our Champion is in a little too deep here.”  
“I would say so.”

 

Hawke led them to the main hall where what remained of the guards struggled against a group of shades. Carver and the other wardens were there as well and while Ohgren stopped fighting long enough to wave hello, Carver screamed at them to get off their asses and help.  
Hawke quickly charged forward and it became painfully obvious from the way she staggered around as she fought that rest was needed and fast. When the demons were dispatched Hawke went from man to man and made certain there were no casualties. “Get some sleep. The next batch will be coming soon.”  
Carver quickly found the group while his sister was distracted. He looked confused at their appearance, though a little relieved. “Should have known you'd all show up eventually. You arrived just in time for things to completely go to shit but that's not really a surprise.”  
“Hello, Carver!” Merrill's bright voice wiped Carver's bitter expression away in an instant.  
“Oh. Merrill.” Carver's cheeks flushed but to his credit the color disappeared quicker than it would have before. “I--”  
“We don't have time for your awkward attempts at flirting, Carver.” His sister had returned and pointed towards a man lying on his back and groaning dramatically. “He's calling for you. Thinks he has the blight which I told him was impossible. Won't take my word for it, but it's understandable considering he broke his left wrist and I, uh, healed the other one.”  
“Maker, Sister,” Carver grumbled and stomped away. Hawke returned to her friends. “Fenris, Isabela,” Hawke said while she took Isabela's hands in hers. “Would you stay here and help Carver? The demons congregate in here, trying to reach the rest of the castle. It's our main line of defense but I can't stay to defend it. Could--”  
“You will buy all my drinks. Forever,” Isabela told her.  
“Well, that's one way to go bankrupt,” Hawke decided before adding, “And thank you.”  
Fenris seemed loathe to leave her. He frowned or deepened his frown. “Don't do anything--”  
“Don't do anything stupid without you?” Hawke guessed. “Don't worry. I'll save all the stupid for you. I mean for when you get there. Uh. You know what I--”  
He stopped her stammering. Weeks apart and she still couldn't just talk to him. “I understand.”  
“Okay,” Hawke returned and yawned loudly, her jaw cracking from the strain. “Maker, I'm exhausted. I'm barely resisting this demon myself which makes any unexpected trips into the fade, also known as nap time, very inconvenient.” The mage leaned against Isabela for support, resting her chin on the pirate's shoulder. “Very, very inconvenient,” Hawke continued, her voice gradually growing quieter as she mumbled against Isabela's skin.  
“Looks like I'm the one being inconvenienced,” Isabela pointed out dryly. She waited for the witty retort that they were all sure was to come. There was nothing. “Hawke? Oh, Maker, I think she fell asleep on me.”  
“Let her,” Varric suggested. “I don't think she's gotten any since this whole mess started.”  
Isabela made a pained face, but tried her best to remain still anyway. Once Hawke started drooling, though, it was a whole 'nother story. “Okay, okay, we need to move her to a bed or something that is not me.”  
“Here.” Fenris took Hawke gently by the shoulders and tried to settle her down on the floor without waking her. It didn't work. She startled, throwing up her hands to cover her face. Still hanging on to her, Fenris said quietly, “Hawke?”  
Her mutterings grew louder, bordering on the hysterical. “I should have known. Why didn't I know? I hurt you. Just like he did. Just like him.”  
Fenris pushed her away from him, panicked. Her hands fell from her face and, her eyes glassy, focused on him. “I'm so fucking sorry. I fucked up. I really fucked up.” He watched in horror as Hawke rushed him, more apologies spilling from her mouth. Some of them didn't make any sense and Fenris wanted none of them.  
“Hawke, stop that.” He backpedaled faster until his back hit a wall. “Stop.”  
Hawke only stopped when her brother grabbed her from behind and started tugging her away. “Who let her sleep?” he asked, more tired than angry. Carver spun her around and shook her until she started to wake up. “You're making everyone uncomfortable.”  
Her voice was soft and slow. “You and Bethany looked just like Mother. I'm so sorry that I--”  
Carver made a disgusted face and gave her another shake. “You start that again and I'm going to dunk you in a watering trough.”  
That seemed to reach her. “I'm up, I'm up!” Hawke protested, prying his hands off her. She stood alone for a minute, lightly slapping her cheeks while taking deep breaths. She stood up straight and added, “I've got everything completely under control but, uh, what just happened?”  
“No one say anything,” Varric ordered, while everyone looked around uncomfortably. “Hawke, you with us now? You awake?”  
“Probably,” Hawke shrugged, wiping sleep from her eyes. “Carver, pinch me to make sure.”  
“I'm not going to do that.”  
She was convinced. “Yep, I'm awake. Not sure why everyone's refusing to make eye contact with me but I'm going to just pretend it's not happening.”  
There was awkward silence until Varric approached her, trying to get everyone past that uncomfortable little show. “Can we move on? I had the feeling you were about to do something magey.”  
She was looking at Fenris, frowning. Hawke faked a grin as she turned back to him. “Something very magey. Come on.”  
Varric sighed and followed, an equal mixture of nervous and curious. His trigger finger was feeling very itchy.

 

“Why are we...” Varric had to stop for another breath. Hawke glared back at him impatiently. How Daisy and Hawke kept up their perky enthusiasm for climbing he'd never understand. “Climbing so many damn stairs?”  
“I wanted to keep Aedan--”  
“You two are on a first name basis now? Nobody's on a first name basis with you.”  
Hawke growled childishly at her friend. “That's because... It's only because there's two Couslands here. It'd be confusing if I only used surnames... Don't read into it!”  
Varric raised his hands in defense before lowering them to prop himself up on his knees. He had to catch his breath. “So, back to my first question then. Where are all these stairs going to?”  
“I wanted to keep Aedan as far away from where the demon originated. I don't know whether distance makes a difference but I'm ready to try anything.”  
“Like murder?” Merrill piped up in her mind helpfully.  
“Like fade murder,” Hawke corrected.  
Varric huffed, unimpressed. “Cool phrasing but still murder.”  
If Hawke had an answer to that she never gave it. They had reached the final flight of stairs and the top floor was blocked off with a solid wood door. Varric watched Hawke stop before the doorway and let her forehead fall against the wood. It was a few moments before she produced a key and started working on the door's lock. “Now,” she warned them, half laughing, “Aedan's never been pretty but this especially won't be.”  
Hawke led them inside a very small room and they were immediately greeted by a rather frantic Fergus Cousland. “Champion, that last wave of demons that appeared, it nearly completely drained him. You need to--”  
“I got it,” Hawke rushed past him and to the bedside of a very unconscious and prone warden. She sat by his side and, rolling up one of her sleeves, she felt Aedan's forehead and then pulse.  
Fergus crouched down next to her. “Do you need me to--”  
Hawke shook her head quickly. “I got it this time.”  
“Have you eaten? Or slept? Aedan, wouldn't--”  
Those were silly questions. He knew she couldn't sleep if she wanted to avoid this demon and his particular brand of terror. She had guilt in spades and that made her as appetizing of a target as Aedan was. Hawke huffed, “If Aedan wants a say in this he can wake his decently shaped ass up.” She stopped whatever she was doing for a second to add quickly, “Forgot he's your brother. Don't mention this to him. If he knows I've been talking nice about him it's going to mess up our whole dynamic.”  
Suddenly Varric grabbed Hawke's wrist, halting all movement. “Hawke,” he said slowly, as if he wasn't sure she was listening, “what do you think you're doing?”  
She wasn't phased at all. “How do you think we've been keeping him alive? I can't exactly force feed him while he's like this,” Hawke complained. She turned away from Varric and tucked in the sheets around Aedan a little tighter. “My hand's scarred up anyway.”  
It probably wasn't anything she said but Varric released her. “Maker,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead clear of sweat. “This is almost worse than Kirkwall.”  
“Almost,” Hawke echoed and let Varric watch as her life flowed into Aedan. She made a quick cut on her palm and then used the same hand to squeeze Aedan's hand. Fergus quickly looked away and seemingly noticed Varric and Merrill for the first time. “Champion, you have a company.”  
“They're fine,” Hawke said quickly. “Merrill here is going save your brother.” Hawke turned dramatically sad eyes to Merrill. “This demon's going to kill him if you don't perform that Dalish ritual, Merrill. Please, Merrill.”  
“Oh,” Merrill hummed, glancing at Varric. “Some of us aren't so sure about...”  
Hawke immediately stood up, a little too fast from the way she stumbled a bit, before she dropped to her knees in front of the elf. “Merrill, you can see how bad things are going here. I really need you here. I don't know what I would have done if you all hadn't...”  
She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. “We're here now, Hawke. Don't worry about the rest.”  
“Then you'll help, Varric? You'll let me do this?” She sounded desperate, which she was. Fergus came over and, taking her wounded hand, bandaged it carefully.  
“No one likes the idea of you going into the fade alone and fighting the Warden one on one. Not that anyone's doubting your skills,” Varric assured her, “but there's a lot more at stake for you than there is for him.”  
Fergus looked back and forth between them, decided he didn't want to know, and returned to his brother's side. Hawke pleaded with her friend. “It's the only way to end this. To fix what I couldn't the first time.”  
“Even if you could convince me of this almost suicide mission, you'll never convince Fenris. Or Carver. Have you even told him about this?”  
Hawke made several faces before Varric got the message that she had not. “Then let's do it now!” Her voice rose into a near shout and Fergus, out of reflex perhaps, shushed her. Hawke stared at him. “Seriously? If my yelling wakes him up it'll be a Maker-damned miracle.”  
Fergus let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry, I wasn't thinking.”  
Another laugh and Hawke quickly went back to pleading for Merrill to perform the ritual. Varric's mind spun as he tried to come up with any alternative to Hawke's current course of action. If she succeeded in getting Merrill to perform this ritual and it went wrong... Well, Varric didn't care for the thought of Merrill trying to carry around all that guilt. She had very small shoulders.  
“I'll do it,” came the reluctant whisper and it was quickly followed by Hawke's shout of joy.  
“Thank you, thank you. Merrill, I'll help you break into all the nobles gardens once we get back to Kirkwall, I promise,” Hawke swore, making an 'X' motion across her chest. She bounced over to Fergus. “I'm going in after your brother. Varric will stay here and help keep things under control. This demon knows me. He'll recognize me the instant I trespass in his domain and he's going to bring everything's he's got down on all of you. He'll be panicking. He won't be expecting Dalish magic from us.”  
“Perfect,” Varric complained. “You rile him up and we get to deal with the fallout.”  
“You were the one complaining that you were bored.”  
“No. No, I really wasn't.”

 

They spent a few more minutes with the Cousland brothers. Hawke tarried over Aedan, her face close to his own. She carefully lifted both of his eyelids and frowned. He was no more awake than he had been before the transfusion. Fergus leaned over her, watching. “Thank you, Champion.”  
“Don't do that yet.” Hawke's fingers stretched towards Aedan's jaw before she quickly snatched them back. To the others she said, “Merrill, there's one other mage here. Let her know what you need for the ritual. Fergus can take you to her. Just meet us back here when you're ready.”  
Fergus looked shocked at his sudden conclusion but jumped at the chance to help nonetheless. “Right this way, madame,” he said, his bow leaning towards the over dramatic. Merrill giggled and looped her arm through his. Though her laughter ceased quickly as she remembered the situation.  
“Varric,” Hawke sighed, sinking into what had been Fergus's chair. “This damn blueblood's really taking it out of me. Though Aedan's body is familiar with taking blood and using it for energy this whole process is still draining. It's only a temporary fix, like a bandage on poisoned wound.”  
Varric added artfully, “Sooner or later you're going to have to rip that bandage off and flush out the rot?”  
“I won't be able to keep this up much longer, even with Fergus stepping to help, uh, 'donate'.” She gave her friend a weary look. “I have to do this.” When he seemed about to protest further Hawke added, “I want to do this. I want to choose to do this, as dangerous as it is. For once.”  
“I seem to recall someone running head first to the Arishok during the invasion. What do you call that?”  
“That's only because I was usually running away from something that scared me worse. I only fought the Arishok because I feared what Meredith would do more.” Hawke laughed. “I figured the Qunari have all those damn rules and logic. There'd have to be some way to reason with them.”  
“There was. And it was your choice not to take it.”  
“Isabela's the only one of you that can out drink me. I couldn't get rid of my only competition.”  
Varric cracked a smile and he had to force it to fade away into his 'business face'. “In all seriousness, Hawke, you're really sure you want to go in there alone?”  
“If you would have brought Anders with you, no, but Justice isn't here. So, yes, I'm going in alone.” Hawke sank down into her chair. She had shit posture even after spending weeks with only nobles for company. It must have been hell. “It'll be easy, Varric. I'll fight off whatever demons this Guilt demon sends after me. And then I'll find Aedan. And then I'll say something dreadfully clever. And then I'll stab him or something. It's a work in progress.”  
“Work faster.”

 

Merrill and Fergus returned, along with the Warden mage whose name Hawke almost remembered. To be safe she was going to stick with 'warden'.  
“Are we ready for this?”  
“Maybe?” Merrill's voice reached even higher octaves than normal.  
Fergus muttered something behind her and entered, dragging a bedroll behind him. “We're going to need this, right? For you? Somebody just tell me I didn't carry this up three flight of stairs for nothing.”  
Varric helped him find a place for the bed while Hawke worked on unpinning her cape from around her shoulders. She gave the silver bird pin that held the thing together to Merrill and, sitting down cross-legged, said, “Are we going to do this or what?”  
“There was an option?” Merrill blurted.  
“No,” Fergus answered before Varric or Hawke could. He placed a sheathed blade on his brother's chest and crossed his arms over them, funeral style. Hawke made a disgruntled noise. That had to be bad luck.  
“And what are you doing over there, Teryn?” she demanded.  
“If I know my brother, and I'd like to think that I do, he's going to want his sword the instant his wakes.”  
“He's not going to do much with a sword with that leg,” Varric pointed out, having examined Aedan's wound previously.  
“Enough.” Hawke settled down, flipping over to sleep on her stomach as she usually did. Fade, here I come. “I'm ready, Merrill, whenever you are.”

 

She really wasn't. The fade was gross; Hawke hated it. It was weird and green. Maker, she hated the color green.  
Also, she was not feeling this mist that was everywhere.  
Hawke wandered around, watching warily as the fade began to take shape around her. “A castle,” she whined, realizing where she was. “Of course Cousland's noble, guilt ridden ass would have his own fade castle.” Hawke paused. “I really, really need to stop talking about his ass. I think I'm doing it on purpose now.”  
There was no visible sign of the demon as Hawke walked up and into the growing castle, but there was evidence all around of the bastard's presence. She could feel Aedan's guilt around her like being smothered in fog. Or, perhaps an ode to Aedan's personality, it was like being wrapped up in a wet blanket.  
She wasn't surprised that she recognized the place. Aedan's issues started and ended at home. She made her way inside the castle, searching for Aedan. Her staff was already in her hands and her fingernails dug into the painted wood nervously. She had a feeling she already knew where he would be.  
The kitchen cellar reeked. Hawke covered her mouth and nose with her hand and wished desperately for a handkerchief. Despite the smell Hawke kept moving forward, her eyes straining in the darkness. She found torches lining the walls and with a little effort she lit them all. And in that sudden light she saw a hulking shape kneeling on the ground, staring at two bodies on the ground.  
“Aedan?” Hawke stepped carefully towards him, but stopped as soon as she started. “You.”  
That demon was hovering in the corner, hooded and cold. When it felt her gaze lock on it, the demon raised it's head high enough that she could see it's rotten smile.  
Aedan looked at her, too. And, though it had been little more than a week that he had been taken, it scared Hawke how good it felt to see him. Here, in the fade, he looked noble. Hair like his brothers, long and loose, and Aedan was bearded as most Fereldens were. The gaunt, militaristic warden was gone and instead Hawke was face to face with a heartbroken aristocrat who looked ready to kill.  
His first words were slow and deliberate.  
“How could you do this?”  
Who did Aedan think she was? Hawke looked to the demon and back to Aedan and suddenly it was all very clear.  
“You claimed to be my father's friend.”  
“Oh, fuck.”


	20. A Strange Case Of Mistaken Identity

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**   
**Dragon Age 2**   
**Chapter 27: A Strange Case of Mistaken Identity**

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Marian Hawke was not particularly agile or quick. Hawkes were built tall and sturdy, just like her father. The life of a rogue had never been an option for her, even if she hadn't been born a mage. If she had taken after the Amell side, perhaps then, but it was not meant to be. She was her father through and through. And while she had no chance in hell of being able to take on Aedan fucking Cousland in close combat, a long range battle was another thing all together.  
So Marian did what Hawke's did best; she ran fast and far. The fade took shape around her as she put as much distance between them as possible.  
He called her a coward and a murderer and his voice broke on both.  
Well, he's not wrong, some nasty part of her chimed in.  
Self reflection would have to put off until a much, much later time. Cousland ran incredibly fast for someone of his build. Without that ton of metal padding he always wore he was surprisingly quick. She guessed if he wasn't he would have died a long time ago.  
Hawke should have guessed that killing the Hero of Ferelden wouldn't be so easy.

 

His vision blurred as Aedan chased after what he believed was the disappearing Rendon Howe. The ground beneath him was even and his footsteps sure. Aedan was shocked at how quick a man of Rendon's age was, but that thought was quickly shoved to the back of his mind.  
Something's not quite right...  
Once more any sense of perception Aedan had was clouded and his focus was forced only on Rendon Howe's back. Aedan ran after him, one hand at the blade on his hip. Rendon turned a corner and when Aedan followed a short blast of lightning nearly struck him. Aedan ducked as another quick flash was sent his way and nothing was making a damn bit of sense.  
Rendon is no mage. What is this...  
He was suddenly flooded with grisly images of his family, cut down in their own home, and he was no longer so concerned with all the tiny details that didn't all add up.

 

The few shots of lightning that she managed to get out all fell shy of their target. And the Warden kept on coming. And running was still looking like the best option. She faced forward again, her lungs screaming, and ran until the fade formed a sudden wall in front of her.  
Hawke forced herself to a halt, her heels skidding in the dirt. Whirling around, she managed to raise her staff in time to meet the sudden downswing of Aedan's sword. Her knees buckled underneath the strength and the hate behind the blow, but before he could overcome her Hawke twisted her staff to the side. Aedan's blade was jerked away though he swung it around back to meet her again quickly enough.  
Stay out of his reach, idiot. Why are letting him get so close?  
As Hawke chastised herself she realized her last question had quite a few possible answers.  
She distanced herself and, using her teeth, bit into her wrist until she drew blood. Blood magic was supposed to used as a last resort, or when she was really bored, and trying to kill a Cousland was a probably a good enough reason.  
She used a variation of her 'puppeteering' spell; using blood magic to slow down Aedan's movements rather than control them. Unfortunately, as Aedan was a reaver, he was rather skilled a fighting off her blood magic as his own skills were similar.

 

Aedan was using his father's blade as more of an ax. He hacked away at Rendon's halberd again and again. He didn't want to cut him down. No, that would be far too quick and far too noble a death for a snake like Rendon. His jaw was clenched. His teeth ground together. He would disarm Rendon, take him down, and throttle him with his bare hands. It was what he deserved.  
I deserved...more.  
“You blood sucking coward.”  
“Blood mage, yes. Blood sucking, no,” Rendon corrected him and instead of responding to his nonsense, Aedan resorted to answering with his blade.  
He struck down with both hands and Rendon raised his halberd with both hands and caught it on the wooden staff. The force behind the blow caused Rendon to stumble back or it may have been his uneven footing.

 

Hawke swore. This bloody demon was making the fade work against her. While trying to block Aedan's hacking and slashing, the ground beneath her became rocky. As a result she had tripped and fallen flat on her ass. Which was rather embarrassing considering she was trying to duel Ferelden's greatest hero.  
When Isabela asked for a duel we should have actually practiced dueling.  
There was no time to reflect on past regrets, which was probably to this particular demon's chagrin. Aedan had literally pounced on her, wrapped both hands around her throat, and slammed her repeatedly against the ground.  
Two hands was excessive. Honestly one hand would have been enough.  
You know what they say about a man with big hands--  
Hawke had to cut her own self off that time. While she being throttled to near death was probably not the best time to be addressing such thoughts.  
Instead, Hawke laced her fingers together and quickly brought her hands up above her head. It broke Aedan's hold on her for a second before his hands reached for her again.  
Hawke decided to try something.  
“You blue-blooded prick, get off me!” Hawke blocked Aedan's attempts to choke her again. She realized it would be much easier to kill him if he wasn't trying to kill her. “It's Hawke, you daft bastard. Hawke. H-A-W-K-E.”  
For a second she thought she might have reached Aedan. He certainly had paused, that clever brain of his was certainly struggling to believe the lie the guilt demon had fabricated. But, alas, he fell back under it's spell. A fact Hawke was brought to terms with rather violently.  
“You broke my damn nose,” Hawke hissed, her mouth filling with her own blood. “This was, ugh, a great nose. A Hawke nose. And you broke it.”  
When Aedan's arm reared back for another punch, Hawke caught his fist in one hand and, calling up flame into existence, burned him until Aedan pulled away. Seeing an opening as Aedan tumbled backwards, without thinking, Hawke lunged forward with the knife she kept hidden on her belt.  
She had meant to gut him. She plunged the blade into Aedan's right side but at his surprised grunt she had quickly recoiled. And Hawke paid for it dearly. Aedan kicked out at her, catching her right in the face. Her arms windmilled as she was knocked backwards.  
“The nose again? That's just excessive,” Hawke joked as she scrambled backwards to flee.  
She wasn't nearly quick enough. Hawke couldn't help but let out a hoarse yell as Aedan took her own dagger and caught her in the calf. Her lightning strike this time reached its intended target. Aedan let go of the dagger and Hawke took the opportunity to run.  
As she stumbled along she barely had enough time to yank the blade out of her calf. Hopefully Aedan bled out before she did, which was not a thought she'd ever thought she'd ever have to think. If she was going to fall apart every time she had to stab the man this was going to be a very long fight.

 

Aedan lunged after Rendon as he ran away and only succeeded in catching a face full of dirt. Swearing, he raised his eyes from the ground to search for the man and found himself staring into someone's black leather boot.  
Placing both his hands on the ground, Aedan pushed himself off the ground. The effort made him wince. Rendon had managed to get a blow in. And Aedan's pride was only to blame.  
But now was not the time to focus on his many faults. Someone new had entered the arena. Aedan focused pale eyes on the haughty form of a woman. Dark hair and dark makeup smeared over each eyelid. The woman was eerie if Aedan had to pick a word.  
And somewhat familiar.  
There was no time for that. Aedan tried to push past her, grunting, “Move. Now.”  
She did not. A well manicured hand shoved at his chest and, before he could respond, that same hand slapped him across the face. Hard enough to make him see stars.  
Goddamn.  
“What the hell was that for?” Aedan rubbed his jaw and glared. Rendon's getting away, a voice told him and yet something made him stay.  
“Tis for being a moron,” the woman sneered. “Something I'd expect from Alistair. Not from you.” She walked past him, tracing a path across one shoulder and down his back with a painted nail. “Perhaps there is a first time for everything.”  
Morrigan. The name came to him suddenly and laced with regret. But how could she be here? In his home? Not a damn bit of this was making sense.  
“He's finally starting to figure it out.” Morrigan observed him passively. “If we're not in Highever then where exactly are we?”  
It was like walking through fog, trying to think rationally in this place. “There's only one place we could be in where I wouldn't be certain where I was.”  
“There he is,” Morrigan or what was passing as Morrigan smirked.  
He had to be in the Fade. If he was filled with so much uncertainty that Aedan was certain where he was. “We're in the Fade.” It wasn't a question; Aedan only wanted this spirit to know that they were on the same page. “And you're not Morrigan.”  
“How could you tell?” the spirit asked, not even attempting to keep up the pretense.  
“Morrigan would have hit me harder.” Aedan watched as the spirit faded into a wisp. “But I thank you all the same. You showed me true compassion.”  
“That was the intent.”  
Aedan stood still for a moment, applying pressure with the heel of his hand to the wound in his side. If he was in the Fade, then it wasn't Rendon who he had been chasing. Who had he tried to kill?  
Who was trapped in there with him?  
And who the fuck had stabbed him?

 

“Hawke, you dumb, magnificent bastard.” She congratulated and insulted herself at the same time. She had a complicated relationship with herself.  
The Warden had stopped chasing her ages ago and yet Hawke was perfectly content to hide behind a nice, mossy rock and wait it out. It wasn't because she was unable to run (limp) any further. Nah. It was simply a precaution. If she just sat tight and caught her breath, Hawke was sure she could come up with a fool-proof plan to outsmart the Warden. It was only a matter of time.  
“I should have known that it'd be you.”  
Hawke nearly jumped out of her own skin. Aedan Cousland was standing over her, one hand pressed to a knife wound courtesy of herself.  
Step one. Hide from Cousland. Step two. Kill said Cousland.  
Failed step one.  
Dammit, there were only two steps. How had she fucked up so badly?  
He wasn't making a move, not yet, and that threw her off. Preparing to either raise a barrier or run, Hawke gave Aedan a curt nod. “What's up, good looking?” Her fingers tingled as she considered what spell to try first. Why wasn't he attacking? Had he broken free of the demon already? It would certainly make things much easier.  
He was very monotone as he replied, “You stabbed me.”  
Of course he would focus on the negative. “You remember that, do you? Do you know who I am?”  
“It's not very hard to forget.” Aedan grimaced as he slid down next to her. Wait, was that the answer to her first or second question? What was it about the fade that made everyone so damn mysterious? Hawke watched him shift around a bit, still on edge. She could try to kill him now but if whatever she tried didn't kill him instantly... Aedan was much to close to risk it. Hawke would have to find a way to distance herself from him. A little bit of lightning might be enough to do it.  
“Before you ask, you don't want me to try to heal that. I tried to heal Aveline once and I think I saw her almost tear up. And I know you really don't know Aveline but that's terrifying. It kept me up at night for nearly a week.”

 

Hawke was blathering. She was also prepared to defend herself. Aedan could feel the tickle of electricity in the air; it made his short hair stand on end. Though she was reacting rather well to his sudden appearance considering he had been trying to kill her only minutes before. She had a very short memory. Or very select.  
Speaking of memory, as Hawke continued to babble, Aedan tried to recall how he ended up in the fade. If he was correct, and he usually was, he had been brought into the fade alone. Which led him to believe that he was either sitting with a spirit in the form of the Champion or Hawke had somehow brought herself into the fade to find him.  
And he had thanked her for that by trying to murder her.  
He had been in the fade when he had first entered Ferelden's Circle, which had been probably the worst thing time he'd ever had in his life. And he had been to Orlais.  
Aedan could vaguely remember a man named Niall, the one that sloth demon was using as a sort of power source. He had died after having been completely drained of life.  
Perhaps he was dying as well.  
“Stop talking.”

 

Hawke snapped her mouth shut. Not because she was fine with people, particularly some blue-blooded warden, telling her what to do. It was more of the fact that she still wasn't sure Aedan was completely out of this guilt demon's hold. He hadn't said her name yet. Perhaps he still wasn't sure who or what he was talking to. But not trying to beat the living shit out of her was definitely a step in the right direction.  
“Stop talking,” Hawke repeated. “Got it. Just pretend I'm not even here. Let me fade into the background. Fade into the background. Ha ha.”  
Aedan's grimace was rather impressive. Sure, Hawke had seen better, but it was still rather good. He rubbed his temples and growled, “I truly believe the Maker created you specifically to torment me.”  
Well, that sounded like Aedan was back on the 'I think you slaughtered my family and I need to extract vengeance' whole bit. “Dear Maker, please tell me you don't still think I'm that Howe person.”  
She watched him reach into his overcoat pocket and pull out a bit of cloth. “I know you, Hawkling. Only you would laugh at your own pun for that long.” He wiped at her face none too gently, cleaning off smeared blood and dirt. She leaned away, wincing. “Hold on, this is caked on.”  
“So you're you? I mean, you're really you? Say something only the real--”  
“You live in the worst city in Thedas, you're a pretty mediocre mage, your dancing will be talked about in Orlais for the next decade--”  
She covered his mouth with her hand, smacking away his handkerchief in the process. “Okay, okay. That's enough of that.”  
He peeled her hand off him, holding her by the wrist. “But I didn't even get to your finer points.”  
“For some reason I don't think I want you to.”  
He was squeezing her wrist a little too tight. “Why would you come for me? I must be dying back home. What logical reason could there possibly be?”  
Hawke clicked her tongue, shaking her head at him. “If you're assuming I work logically the fault is there. And you're not dying. I'm a blood mage, remember?”  
He wasn't pleased at all at her obvious sacrifice. “That is foolish of you, Marian. Very dangerous. This could backfire on you in a hundred ways--”  
“You are welcome, Warden,” Hawke lathered on the sarcasm heavily. “My sincere apologies for trying to save your ass. Particularly your ass. I have mentioned that your backside if proof of a divine hand.”  
“Oh no, you've never mentioned that,” Aedan muttered but Hawke couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “And I am grateful to you, even if you are being self destructive. But I've come to realize that that may be your natural state.” He made an attempt to stand. Hawke let him try a few times before she helped him up.  
She laughed dryly as he leaned against her for support. “Not that this little chat hasn't been fun, but it hasn't. The fade is the worst. Let's get you out of here.”  
He looked genuinely shocked at that, pale eyes flashing up to meet hers. “We haven't taken care of this demon yet. Granted it will be harder to do now that I am wounded. It will be safer, though, for our families, if we kill this demon here in the fade.”  
That didn't bode well. “We're both wounded and this demon's been playing the two of us like...something that is easily played with. I'm sorry, that one got away from me.”  
“I am not leaving.” Maker's dangling sack, he was getting that damned look in his eyes again. There'd be no reasoning with him now. Aedan retorted, “People have died for this. More will die the more we stall.”  
Frowning, Hawke stood directly in front of him. “We cannot do this,” she said, stretching up on her toes to fully catch his eye. “Perhaps you aren't dead yet, but you are fading. Please trust me on this.” Couldn't he be selfish at least once? Or at least self-preserving?  
Still he protested. “I cannot let anyone else--”  
Oh, she was a fool. Hawke knew she had to kill him quickly and get the two of them out of there. So she kissed him.  
She was already in his face, toes stretched to make her as tall as she could manage. Most of her work was already done for her. He certainly wasn't expecting it. When Hawke broke it off Aedan simply stared down at her, silent and...was he a little flushed? That could have been an infection setting in, on account of the dagger wound, but a girl could certainly dream.  
“Well, that got you to shut up,” Hawke laughed, crossing her arms behind her back. She was trying to hide her knife up her sleeve without him noticing. “I'd almost rather you say something. Actually, please say something. Anything.”  
He didn't say anything. Not unexpected, the man had never done as she asked before. Instead he craned his neck down enough to kiss her back. It was rather sweet and surprising and made Hawke feel worse as she wound one hand into his short hair and used the other to cut his throat.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21: Mending

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**   
**Dragon Age 2**   
**Chapter 28: Mending**

**A/N _:_** _I really need to wrap this up. I'm starting to forget things. It took me five minutes to figure out the name of Aedan's squire and I still don't recall why I had thought she was relevant to the story at the time???_

* * *

 

 

When Hawke awoke she found she couldn't breathe. It felt like something was sitting on her chest, and for a moment she thought maybe it was her damn mabari, but she could see nothing there. She sat up too quickly, her back and neck protesting the sudden movement. Something cold and pale touched her. Hawke scrambled backwards, hitting cold stone with much more force than she had meant. There was a throbbing knot forming on the back of her head but it knocked her back into her senses. She was breathing again, not anywhere near normally but it was a start.  
Someone appeared next to her and Hawke was startled to find two large green eyes staring at her. It took her a few blinks to register that it was only Merrill before the elf threw her arms around her. Hawke managed to choke out, “I'm fine, Merrill. We escaped.”  
“I know,” the elf babbled. “I just had to make sure it was, well, that it was really you.”  
“It's me,” Hawke assured her, though she freely admitted, “Which is exactly what a demon would say but...” She trailed off, looking about the room. “Where's Varric?”  
“He went to the main hall to help,” Merrill explained. “You've been out for a few hours and things, well, they haven't gone particularly well.”  
Hawke rushed to reassure her. “I'm here now. That demon isn't leeching off the warden anymore. We can find it and kill it. Summon it if we have to, but I think it'll make an appearance on it's own.”  
“Brother, please.” There was an audible struggle and Hawke cringed, realizing what was happening. Aedan was awake, too, which had been exactly what she had intended upon going into the fade but she had certainly imagined it under different circumstances. Circumstances where she hadn't done something incredibly shitty in order to get him out.  
“What in the Maker's name were you bloody thinking?” She could see him struggling to get out of bed while Fergus held him down.  
Hawke immediately went on the defensive. “I had to distract you so I could--”  
After managing to sit up on his own while pushing away any of Fergus's attempts to help him, Aedan gave her a cold glare that could easily rival any Ferelden winter. “I wasn't talking about your infantile attempt at a... How did you word it? Distraction.” He was steaming, which was new. Normally when Aedan was pissed he turned cold and distant, but this anger here was red hot. “I was referring to your cowardice.” The rest of his statement trailed off into a fit of coughing.  
“Whatever you're about to say, brother,” Fergus warned him as he smacked Aedan on the back a few times. “You're probably going to regret it.”  
“I won't.” Though he paused, Aedan continued on, staring Hawke down. “We could have taken that demon down on our own. We could have saved a lot of people a world of hurt if we—you--would have stepped up and faced it back there. How could you--”  
“That's easy for you to say,” she spat back, suddenly fuming. Hawke stood against Merrill's protests and wobbled a second. When she regained her footing she continued venomously, “If you would have died back there you would have woken up, safe and sound back in your royal bed chamber. But not me! No, I would have woken up tranquil.”  
Aedan quieted at that. He uncharacteristically avoided her gaze, one hand subconsciously rubbing at the bandaging on his leg. When he finally he spoke it was very quiet and tired. “My apologies, Marian.”  
“Oh, yeah, same to you, blueblood,” she shot back and then blanched in confusion. “Wait, that wasn't what I thought you were going to say.” How long had he been calling her Marian? Why didn't she notice things?  
Aedan waved a hand dismissively. He tapped his leg pointedly. “It's broken, isn't it?”  
“Quite badly,” his brother chimed in. He nodded to Hawke and Merrill both. “I think, if you have this under control, that, ah, Merrill and I should return to the fighting.”  
“What?” Hawke shook her head. “I'm coming with.”  
“No. You were running yourself ragged before you went into the fade. I can't imagine how you're managing to stay on two feet after all that.”  
“It's mostly out of bitterness and spite,” Hawke shrugged.  
“Stay here with Aedan,” Fergus said and before she could complain, added, “And don't make me use my “teryn” voice.”  
“Guess there's no arguing with you then.”  
“Then I'll argue with you,” Aedan demanded crossly. “First of all, why isn't my damn leg already healed? This should have been done the second I fell under. If you expect me to lie here while you--”  
Fergus cut him off with what Hawke suspected was the infamous “teryn” voice. “I don't expect you to do anything. You have a broken leg and I'm taking your only healer.”  
Aedan seemed bewildered at being so outplayed so efficiently. And by his own brother. Hawke waited for him to say something, anything, but he only sat there, gaping like a fish.  
“It's for your own good, brother. You're in no shape to help and I knew I wouldn't be able to keep you out of the fight otherwise. The leg stays broken until I finish this. Now, let's go help the others, Lady Merrill,” Fergus beckoned to her and Hawke watched the two leave and was left very impressed. And she was slightly offended when she heard the door lock. Fergus was locking them in? Where was the trust she had worked so hard to gain?  
“Maker's fucking balls.”  
When she whirled around Hawke found Aedan had somehow managed to slip out of bed unnoticed. He was leaning against a wall, sweat beading on his forehead, and being very careful to keep any weight off his bad leg. “It's, ah, more broken than I thought.”  
“Didn't you hear what your brother said?” She jabbed a finger towards his bed. “Get back in there! Don't make me tuck you in.”  
“Oh, the horror,” he mocked, turning pale. But Aedan limped back to the bed, sitting on the edge and wincing.  
Hawke scoured the room before presenting Aedan with a few, partially stale biscuits and her waterskin. “Eat. And Drink.”  
“Fine.” That was at least one thing she didn't have to persuade him on. “I heard you tell your friend that you thought the guilt demon would make an physical appearance. Any guesses where that might be?”  
She had one guess. One correct guess. “Hate to break this to you, but I think that demon's going to try to get you back. And he'll want to be somewhere where you'll be emotionally vulnerable.”  
“The cellar?” She was surprised at how quickly he guessed that. She really wanted to lord that information over him, at least for a little while.  
“Yes, the cellar. It has, uh, a not good feel to it,” she admitted.  
“Eloquently put as always,” Aedan rolled his eyes and Hawke wondered why she had kissed him. Oh, that's right. It was so she could stab him. “Now,” Aedan continued, “what can you do about this leg?”  
He didn't want her help; he just didn't know it yet. Hawke helped him swing his broken leg back into bed. He cursed her in a surprising number of languages. In between curses Aedan asked, “Is there nothing you can do about this?”  
She backed away quickly. “Oh, you don't want that. I'm no Anders.”  
“I know that. Can you heal at all?”  
“A broken leg? I struggle with paper cuts and you want me to fix a broken leg?”

 

If he was being completely honest with himself, no, Aedan didn't want Marian within twenty feet of his broken leg. However, the alternative was being stuck in bed while his brother and his entire household fought a demon that he was responsible for waking up.  
Aedan sighed, very afraid to ask what he was about to ask. “I want a simple yes or no answer, Marian. Can you do something about this damn leg so that I can do something about the damn demons infesting my home?”  
“I—uh--”  
“Yes or no, Marian.”  
The Champion turned pink again with either indignation or something else. “Yes. Yes, I can do something about your damn leg but it's going to hurt like a surfacer's first taste of dwarven ale.”  
“Spare me the similes.” He knew he would regret this. And Hawke gave him more evidence to back that theory.  
“I can fix it. It won't be pleasant and I don't think I can get it to heal perfectly straight. You might end up with a limp.” She gestured unhelpfully with her hands. “You'll probably be able to feel when a storms-a-coming.”  
“Seems worth it.” He leaned his head back on the straw pillow and shut his eyes. “Do your worst.”  
“I will probably do my worst.”  
“Do you remember which leg--”  
“The right one?”  
“Well, you had a fifty percent chance.”

 

She shouldn't do this. She'd hurt more than she'd help and even though Cousland was talking a good game, he knew that as well. Though, now that she was considering it...  
No, Fergus was right. Neither of them were in any shape to be fighting anything, let alone a demon that had been handing their asses to them up until this point.  
“What's taking so long?”  
“This situation calls for a delicate hand. So if you squirm too much this delicate hand is going to smack you around. Got it?” Hawke rolled up a hand towel and handed it to Aedan. “You're going to want to bite down on something.”  
“Might want to save the foreplay for after we kill the demon,” Aedan suggested and then watched as Hawke stuttered and turned red. Redder. “Forget what I just said. I'm only trying to make you more comfortable by talking like you do. I am very nervous about what you're about to do to my leg.”  
“You should be,” she told him and gladly stuffed the towel between his teeth. “Be prepared to curse your ancestors and mine. I'd start with my Uncle Gamlen. He's a right bastard.”  
Hawke laid hands on him, her fingers tingling with magic and uncertainty. In a pinch she could mend scrapes, bruises, and maybe even a deep paper cut if she was feeling particularly brave. Something as difficult as a broken bone, though? It was going to be mostly trial and error. Painful, trial and error.  
The bone moved, desperately trying to realign itself. Aedan screamed.

 

Aedan had never missed Anders more until this moment. Sure, the mage had a smart mouth and he really wasn't all that great at push ups, but the man could heal. He'd numb the pain first and then work on the wound itself. A healing from Anders was like taking a quick bath in warm salt water. With Hawke there was no numbing. The pain was there, constant and sharp and worse with each move she made. Hawke felt like fire and oh, so much blood.  
He had known it would hurt. He'd been hurt before. Dragonfire was the worst thing he'd ever experienced and this day was beginning to look like a close second.  
His throat was too dry to shout anymore. Aedan started whispering curses. To which Hawke applied in rushed apologies and reassurances that weren't so reassuring.  
It was excruciating. Until suddenly it wasn't.

 

How he had managed to stay awake after all that, when a smarter man would have fainted, Hawke refused to guess. He'd definitely walk with a limp and that didn't sit right with her. At all. Aedan Cousland was not someone who limped into a room, dammit.  
“Good thing your brother overlooked this when he trapped us in here.” Aedan's breathing was unsteady and too deep. Wishing to give herself any excuse to look away, Hawke turned and fetched the family sword for him. “I kept it warm for you,” she quipped. “And polished. Okay, I did neither of those things but I did not lose it. So that's something.”  
“I'm, ah, going to try and put some weight on this,” Aedan ignored her, waving the sword away. “Don't let me fall.”  
“Oh, I'm sure that'd just send all that arrogant confidence of yours straight down the drain.” She chanced a peak at him. Ah, there was that not so amused frown.  
“Save that sort of talk for when you can mend a leg without causing more pain than being nearly burned alive by a high dragon.”  
That was oddly specific. “Hey, I told you I can't heal. But if you want shit set on fire, I have that covered. I can set this whole castle on fire and now that I've said that I realize that is probably not what you want.”  
Aedan started testing his leg, gingerly letting his foot touch the ground. He put a little more weight on it and winced. “Lend me your staff.”  
“Woah, I don't let just anybody touch my staff.”  
He ignored the obvious euphemism. “The first day I met you it was stolen by a man who lives in a sewer.”  
Wordlessly, Hawke handed her staff over to him. She knew when she was beat. “Thank you,” he returned, now using her staff as a sort of makeshift walking stick. “I'll need you to hold my sword.”  
“I want to make a joke out of that but you make it too easy. It would be beneath me.”  
“That's surprisingly mature of you.” He headed for the door, grabbing onto her shoulder when he stumbled. “You're going to have to help me down the stairs. And kick down the door. I'm still weak from being confined in bed for—how long was I out again?”  
“Fergus told me not to tell you. Says you have a weird thing about sleeping in.”  
It was an understatement, really, and Aedan clearly decided to let it go for now. More to end her never ending attempts at banter, attempts at stalling the inevitable, Aedan stepped past her and gestured towards the exit. “The cellar. Now.”

 

It was slow going. There were more stairs than Aedan remembered. Steeper, as well. Hawke kept glancing back at him, leading the way on her two good legs. She was watching his face, gauging his reaction to the ruined state of his family's castle. She needn't have worried. The destruction and chaos was all too familiar. It wasn't any easier the second time around. Especially if he thought at all about the fact that this demon had leeched all this power from him.  
There were sounds of fighting in the main hall. They kept walking, the hairs on the back of his neck rising the closer they got to the cellar. Aedan rubbed absentmindedly at his neck and, sweet Maker, had no one bothered to cut his hair? A quick inspection informed him that shaving him was apparently out of the question as well. He suddenly regretted passing off his squire to his brother. Edith would never have allowed this.  
“I know this is usually your line,” Hawke began, her arms hugging her sides as they stepped outside. The cellar was just around the next corner. “But, what's our plan? Do we just charge in there? Kill whatever we find? That's not really a plan, though. That's just my average Tuesday.”  
“I'm going to need you to take lead on this. I confess I don't quite feel well.” Honestly, it could have simply been the consequences of being bedridden for so long, though Aedan feared the worst. If he fell under this demon's control for a second time...  
“Hey.” Hawke's breath was clouding the air and her hand was tightly clasping his own. “You have to admit that you're a screw up. Sometimes,” she added quickly, reading his reaction.  
“Are you trying to help or are you just fucking with me?” he snarled, pulling his hand free. Or attempting to. Hawke held on like a warhound.  
“Take some free advice from Kirkwall's biggest fuckup. You can be the greatest tactical genius in the world and Thedas is still going to take a shit on you.” Her hand squeezed a bit tighter; she moved in a little closer. “I have killed everything that's ever gotten in my way and it didn't help my mother or sister or my father. And I can't make up for what was done to my family. You can't make up for what was done to yours. So fuck this guy for reminding us of that.” She released him and headed straight for the kitchen. “Let's kill this asshole and then get really drunk at the victory celebration and then do a bunch of stuff we're both going to pretend to regret.”  
He laughed quietly. “That's the most depressing outlook on life that I've ever heard.”  
“You clearly haven't spoken much with Carver then.”

 

By the time they had reached the cellar door, Aedan's leg had stretched out enough to walk successfully on his own. He held on to her staff, still needing some sort of crutch. On the other hand, Hawke had his blade strapped across her back. It forced her to walk a little hunched over. How Aedan thought he was going to be able to swing that thing around after he'd been out of commission for weeks, she had no idea.  
The kitchen was empty, save for the remnants of a few dinners left to rot. The smell caused her nose to crinkle. She looked over to Aedan and saw his eyes were watering.  
The cellar door was shut, bolted, and nailed shut. Peeling away the boards one by one was tedious and unwanted work. They did not speak to each other as filthy nails dug underneath the wooden planks nailed across the doorway. The wind had changed. No longer did they do their witty back and forth. At this point their banter was done only to retain some semblance of normalcy and courage.  
The two of them were exhausted. Beaten. And while they both knew they needed back up, they also knew that this demon would only face them alone. They were, quite honestly, bait.  
This was a bad plan. And Aedan was going along with it. He wasn't known for bad plans, not like her. One didn't kill an Arch-demon with plan B.  
Oh, her friends were going to kill her for this if this demon didn't.

Hawke had grown disturbingly quiet. It was this realization that told Aedan they were well and truly fucked. He felt ill and dizzy and malnourished. Considering he was only alive thanks to Hawke's blood magic, her own blood fueling the spell at times, she had to be feeling similar. Perhaps worse, as she had also had to lead the Cousland forces while he was asleep. Her nails were bitten down to stubs. And her hair...never mind, that was actually normal for her.  
“I realize we are almost inside, but I feel one of us should say it out loud. We should get backup. Both of us are weak and some of us, myself, wounded.” Aedan stared past Hawke and at the door. There was one final piece of wood blocking the cellar door. “The odds of us surviving this aren't exactly in our favor.”  
“As uneducated as my peasant mind is, that thought has already occurred to me.” Hawke bit at her thumbnail. At what was left of it. “I think more people will scare this demon into not showing. And any sane person would listen to what we are doing and then strap us back into bed permanently. And leave us there. And feed us very soft foods. And--”  
“I understood what you were getting at three unnecessary sentences ago.”  
The final board was pried free.  
They weren't ready.

 

The room was small and cold and reeked of decay. Aedan could hear insects scurrying, though he saw none himself. There shouldn't have been bugs; the first frost should have killed them off.  
Like a true Ferelden, at that moment all he wanted more than anything was his dog. Moira had been at his side through everything. Everything.  
He heard Hawke unsheathe his sword. Her hands dipped underneath the weight, but she took a surprisingly correct two-handed stance as she stood at his side. Her weapon was still propping him up, the blade pointing towards the ceiling. Where was it?  
His uneven breaths fogged his vision; it was so damn cold. Hawke was moving further into the room, kicking aside abandoned crates in her search. As Aedan took a few steps after her, the door slammed shut behind them. He startled and lurched to the side, avoiding the shot of lightning Hawke had sent upon reflex towards the door.  
“Settle down,” he seethed, unsure why he was whispering. Steadying himself, Aedan wielded her staff as a pike. He was about to suggest a switch when Hawke swung her blade in the air in front of her, bouncing the blade off the nearest stone wall. She had just missed the hovering demon by a hair.  
“It's here!” she shouted unnecessarily.  
Aedan merely nodded and lunged forward with her bladed staff. There wasn't nearly enough room to wield it normally. He nearly made contact until the demon spun around and somehow ended up behind him. He felt the temperature drop suddenly and he dove to the floor, anticipating at the last second the shot of ice sent his way.  
The demon's missing on purpose, Aedan thought. It was the only explanation to how he had dodged the blast in his current condition. Somehow he doubted Hawke would receive the same treatment.  
A purple wave of magic shielded him as he painfully struggled to his feet. Damn his leg. “He has us trapped,” Hawke shouted, side-stepping over to him. Her eyes didn't leave the hooded demon. “We need to draw him out. Somewhere with a little more breathing room.” Easier said than done as the demon was now blocking the door they had used to enter.  
There was another way. But they weren't even remotely dressed for the cold. If they used his family's secret escape tunnel...if they weren't dead before they made it outside the castle...well, the Ferelden winter would quickly take care of that.  
He must have blinked or perhaps even blacked out for a few seconds because Hawke had screamed and he had no idea why. The demon was gone...no, it was changed.  
There was a stout, tanned man Aedan had never seen before. Dark beard, darker shaggy hair and wicked eyes that were all too familiar.  
Oh, this was different.  
“That's your father,” Aedan said as Hawke said, “That's my father.”  
This demon was using new tricks. Hawke's father looked angry, his mouth twisting into a sneer. It wasn't a look a Hawke should have.

 

Hawke knew what her father was going to say before he actually did. You should have given up everything to save me. I would have protected your mother, the family. Done what you could not and blah blah blah.  
She knew what the demon would say because it was exactly what she had been thinking. Of course, the demon added more adjectives than she would. Not to mention it was with a much more educated vocabulary than she possessed.  
But why would this guilt demon take the form of her father? If it was Cousland it was after. Unless... Ah, the demon wanted her out of the way. Dead. Gone. Perhaps it thought she'd be hesitant to attack something that looked like dear, old dead dad.  
Aedan pinched her arm. “ Steady now. Keep the shield up.”  
“Shield's still up, isn't it?” she snapped. She didn't look away from the startling image of her father. Hawke knew it was just a copy of her father pulled from her somewhat foggy memory, but she wanted to soak it all in. She hadn't seen her father in years and to be frank she had been beginning to forget what he looked like.  
Realizing Hawke's listening skills weren't where the demon had been hoping they'd be, the fake Malcolm revealed an identical staff to his child's and used it to send ice and frost spraying their way. The purple shield buckled, but held.  
Aedan scrambled to his feet and started feeling along the back wall. “We're moving. Keep the shield steady for a few minutes longer and be prepared to run after me.”  
“We're retreating?” Had Aedan already been possessed? Seemed unlikely, but what other reasoning could there be for the uncharacteristic nonsense coming out of his mouth.  
“Advancing to the rear.”  
Now he was just playing with words. “And you're going to run?” He did not listen to her one genuine piece of medical advice. No running on a recently broken leg. That wasn't much to ask.  
She had more questions, so many more questions which were all answered as a secret panel fell through and revealed a narrow, dark tunnel.  
Hawke made a face. “You blue-bloods are weird.”  
“Without this I'd be dead.” With that Aedan ducked down and entered the tunnel. Hawke backed away into the tunnel, keeping the shield up as she stumbled backwards.  
“We can't leave the castle; we'll freeze to death!” Hawke's anxiety rose and the shield thinned, her mana already so drained from her struggle to keep Aedan alive those past weeks. The flying shards of ice ceased and were replaced with arrows that pinged off her shield. One slipped through and Aedan shouted in surprise. So it was between freezing to death or being murdered by a demon.  
“Arrows now?” he asked, still limping on ahead. Damn, how long was this secret tunnel? They had to be close.  
“The demon has changed again,” Hawke snapped back, her concentration failing. Another arrow flew past but Aedan didn't yell so she was going to assume it had missed. An auburn haired woman chased after them, expertly sending arrows flying their way at a rather terrifying pace.  
“Who is it?” Aedan's slow to ask.  
“Don't know.” One of the arrows nicked her shoulder and she hissed. “Hey,” Hawke thought, scrutinizing the demon again. “Was your mother ginger, too?”  
“Maker damn this demon!”  
Before Hawke could properly respond, she slammed heavily into Aedan's back. He had stopped, fumbling with the tunnel's exit. Hawke stumbled, falling to the ground while the shield fell with her. Another arrow pierced her, lodging itself into the upper part of her arm. Aedan's mama was a damn good shot.  
She wasn't down for long. She was dragged out of the tunnel and into a deep bank of wet snow. Aedan stepped over her to slam the entrance back shut. It was a rather futile effort.  
Eleanor Cousland, the infamous Seawolf, broke through the door in less than a minute and stepped into the snowy clearing. Aedan had met multiple queens and still his mother was the most regal woman he ever saw. At least, to Aedan's eye that was what happened. Marian Hawke saw her father, hulking and tall and with his wry grin replaced with more disappointment than she'd ever even seen in her mother.  
They weren't ready.


	22. Chapter 22

**Mending**

* * *

 

 

When Hawke awoke she found she couldn't breathe. It felt like something was sitting on her chest, and for a moment she thought maybe it was her damn mabari, but she could see nothing there. She sat up too quickly, her back and neck protesting the sudden movement. Something cold and pale touched her. Hawke scrambled backwards, hitting cold stone with much more force than she had meant. There was a throbbing knot forming on the back of her head but it knocked her back into her senses. She was breathing again, not anywhere near normally but it was a start.

Someone appeared next to her and Hawke was startled to find two large green eyes staring at her. It took her a few blinks to register that it was only Merrill before the elf threw her arms around her. Hawke managed to choke out, “I'm fine, Merrill. We escaped.”

“I know,” the elf babbled. “I just had to make sure it was, well, that it was really _you_.”

“It's me,” Hawke assured her, though she freely admitted, “Which is exactly what a demon would say but...” She trailed off, looking about the room. “Where's Varric?”

“He went to the main hall to help,” Merrill explained. “You've been out for a few hours and things, well, they haven't gone particularly well.”

Hawke rushed to reassure her. “I'm here now. That demon isn't leeching off the warden anymore. We can find it and kill it. Summon it if we have to, but I think it'll make an appearance on it's own.”

“Brother, please.” There was an audible struggle and Hawke cringed, realizing what was happening. Aedan was awake, too, which had been exactly what she had intended upon going into the fade but she had certainly imagined it under different circumstances. Circumstances where she hadn't done something incredibly shitty in order to get him out.

“What in the Maker's name were you bloody thinking?” She could see him struggling to get out of bed while Fergus held him down.

Hawke immediately went on the defensive. “I had to distract you so I could--”

After managing to sit up on his own while pushing away any of Fergus's attempts to help him, Aedan gave her a cold glare that could easily rival any Ferelden winter. “I wasn't talking about your infantile attempt at a... How did you word it? Distraction.” He was _steaming_ , which was new. Normally when Aedan was pissed he turned cold and distant, but this anger here was red hot. “I was referring to your _cowardice_.” The rest of his statement trailed off into a fit of coughing.

“Whatever you're about to say, brother,” Fergus warned him as he smacked Aedan on the back a few times. “You're probably going to regret it.”

“I won't.” Though he paused, Aedan continued on, staring Hawke down. “We could have taken that demon down on our own. We could have saved a lot of people a world of hurt if we—you--would have stepped up and faced it back there. How could you--”

“That's easy for you to say,” she spat back, suddenly fuming. Hawke stood against Merrill's protests and wobbled a second. When she regained her footing she continued venomously, “If you would have died back there _you_ would have woken up, safe and sound back in your royal bed chamber. But not me! No, I would have woken up _tranquil_.”

Aedan quieted at that. He uncharacteristically avoided her gaze, one hand subconsciously rubbing at the bandaging on his leg. When he finally he spoke it was very quiet and tired. “My apologies, Marian.”

“Oh, yeah, same to you, blueblood,” she shot back and then blanched in confusion. “Wait, that wasn't what I thought you were going to say.” How long had he been calling her Marian? Why didn't she notice things?

Aedan waved a hand dismissively. He tapped his leg pointedly. “It's broken, isn't it?”

“Quite badly,” his brother chimed in. He nodded to Hawke and Merrill both. “I think, if you have this under control, that, ah, Merrill and I should return to the fighting.”

“What?” Hawke shook her head. “I'm coming with.”  
“No. You were running yourself ragged _before_ you went into the fade. I can't imagine how you're managing to stay on two feet after all that.”

“It's mostly out of bitterness and spite,” Hawke shrugged.

“Stay here with Aedan,” Fergus said and before she could complain, added, “And don't make me use my “teryn” voice.”

“Guess there's no arguing with you then.”

“Then _I'll_ argue with you,” Aedan demanded crossly. “First of all, why isn't my damn leg already healed? This should have been done the second I fell under. If you expect me to lie here while you--”

Fergus cut him off with what Hawke suspected was the infamous “teryn” voice. “I don't expect you to do anything. You have a broken leg and I'm taking your only healer.”

Aedan seemed bewildered at being so outplayed so efficiently. And by his own brother. Hawke waited for him to say something, anything, but he only sat there, gaping like a fish.

“It's for your own good, brother. You're in no shape to help and I knew I wouldn't be able to keep you out of the fight otherwise. The leg stays broken until I finish this. Now, let's go help the others, Lady Merrill,” Fergus beckoned to her and Hawke watched the two leave and was left very impressed. And she was slightly offended when she heard the door lock. Fergus was locking them in? Where was the trust she had worked so hard to gain?

“Maker's fucking _balls_.”

When she whirled around Hawke found Aedan had somehow managed to slip out of bed unnoticed. He was leaning against a wall, sweat beading on his forehead, and being very careful to keep any weight off his bad leg. “It's, ah, more broken than I thought.”

“Didn't you hear what your brother said?” She jabbed a finger towards his bed. “Get back in there! Don't make me tuck you in.”

“Oh, the horror,” he mocked, turning pale. But Aedan limped back to the bed, sitting on the edge and wincing.

Hawke scoured the room before presenting Aedan with a few, partially stale biscuits and her waterskin. “Eat. And Drink.”

“Fine.” That was at least one thing she didn't have to persuade him on. “I heard you tell your friend that you thought the guilt demon would make an physical appearance. Any guesses where that might be?”

She had one guess. One correct guess. “Hate to break this to you, but I think that demon's going to try to get you back. And he'll want to be somewhere where you'll be emotionally vulnerable.”

“The cellar?” She was surprised at how quickly he guessed that. She really wanted to lord that information over him, at least for a little while.

“Yes, the cellar. It has, uh, a not good feel to it,” she admitted.

“Eloquently put as always,” Aedan rolled his eyes and Hawke wondered why she had kissed him. Oh, that's right. It was so she could stab him. “Now,” Aedan continued, “what can you do about this leg?”

He didn't want her help; he just didn't know it yet. Hawke helped him swing his broken leg back into bed. He cursed her in a surprising number of languages. In between curses Aedan asked, “Is there nothing you can do about this?”

She backed away quickly. “Oh, you don't want that. I'm no Anders.”

“I _know_ that. Can you heal at all?”

“A broken leg? I struggle with paper cuts and you want me to fix a _broken leg_?”

 

If he was being completely honest with himself, no, Aedan didn't want Marian within twenty _feet_ of his broken leg. However, the alternative was being stuck in bed while his brother and his entire household fought a demon that _he_ was responsible for waking up.

Aedan sighed, very afraid to ask what he was about to ask. “I want a simple yes or no answer, Marian. Can you do something about this damn leg so that I can do something about the damn demons infesting my home?”

“I—uh--”

“ _Yes or no_ , Marian.”

The Champion turned pink again with either indignation or something else. “Yes. Yes, I can do something about your damn leg but it's going to hurt like a surfacer's first taste of dwarven ale.”

“Spare me the similes.” He knew he would regret this. And Hawke gave him more evidence to back that theory.

“I _can_ fix it. It won't be pleasant and I don't think I can get it to heal perfectly straight. You might end up with a limp.” She gestured unhelpfully with her hands. “You'll probably be able to feel when a storms-a-coming.”

“Seems worth it.” He leaned his head back on the straw pillow and shut his eyes. “Do your worst.”

“I will probably do my worst.”

“Do you remember which leg--”

“The right one?”

“Well, you had a fifty percent chance.”

 

She shouldn't do this. She'd hurt more than she'd help and even though Cousland was talking a good game, he knew that as well. Though, now that she was considering it...

No, Fergus was right. Neither of them were in any shape to be fighting anything, let alone a demon that had been handing their asses to them up until this point.

“What's taking so long?”

“This situation calls for a delicate hand. So if you squirm too much this delicate hand is going to smack you around. Got it?” Hawke rolled up a hand towel and handed it to Aedan. “You're going to want to bite down on something.”

“Might want to save the foreplay for after we kill the demon,” Aedan suggested and then watched as Hawke stuttered and turned red. Redder. “Forget what I just said. I'm only trying to make you more comfortable by talking like you do. I am very nervous about what you're about to do to my leg.”  
“You should be,” she told him and gladly stuffed the towel between his teeth. “Be prepared to curse your ancestors and mine. I'd start with my Uncle Gamlen. He's a right bastard.”

Hawke laid hands on him, her fingers tingling with magic and uncertainty. In a pinch she could mend scrapes, bruises, and maybe even a deep paper cut if she was feeling particularly brave. Something as difficult as a broken bone, though? It was going to be mostly trial and error. Painful, trial and error.

The bone moved, desperately trying to realign itself. Aedan screamed.

 

Aedan had never missed Anders more until this moment. Sure, the mage had a smart mouth and he really wasn't all that great at push ups, but the man could heal. He'd numb the pain first and then work on the wound itself. A healing from Anders was like taking a quick bath in warm salt water. With Hawke there was no numbing. The pain was there, _constant_ and _sharp_ and worse with each move she made. Hawke felt like fire and oh, so much _blood_.

He had known it would hurt. He'd been hurt before. Dragonfire was the worst thing he'd ever experienced and this day was beginning to look like a close second.

His throat was too dry to shout anymore. Aedan started whispering curses. To which Hawke applied in rushed apologies and reassurances that weren't so reassuring.

It was excruciating. Until suddenly it wasn't.

 

How he had managed to stay awake after all that, when a smarter man would have fainted, Hawke refused to guess. He'd definitely walk with a limp and that didn't sit right with her. At all. Aedan Cousland was not someone who _limped_ into a room, dammit.

“Good thing your brother overlooked this when he trapped us in here.” Aedan's breathing was unsteady and too deep. Wishing to give herself any excuse to look away, Hawke turned and fetched the family sword for him. “I kept it warm for you,” she quipped. “And polished. Okay, I did neither of those things but I did not lose it. So that's something.”

“I'm, ah, going to try and put some weight on this,” Aedan ignored her, waving the sword away. “Don't let me fall.”

“Oh, I'm sure that'd just send all that arrogant confidence of yours straight down the drain.” She chanced a peak at him. Ah, there was that not so amused frown.

“Save that sort of talk for when you can mend a leg without causing more pain than being nearly burned alive by a high dragon.”

That was oddly specific. “Hey, I told you I can't heal. But if you want shit set on fire, I have that covered. I can set this whole castle on fire and now that I've said that I realize that is probably not what you want.”

Aedan started testing his leg, gingerly letting his foot touch the ground. He put a little more weight on it and winced. “Lend me your staff.”

“Woah, I don't let just anybody touch my staff.”

He ignored the obvious euphemism. “The first day I met you it was stolen by a man who lives in a sewer.”

Wordlessly, Hawke handed her staff over to him. She knew when she was beat. “Thank you,” he returned, now using her staff as a sort of makeshift walking stick. “I'll need you to hold my sword.”

“I want to make a joke out of that but you make it too easy. It would be beneath me.”

“That's surprisingly mature of you.” He headed for the door, grabbing onto her shoulder when he stumbled. “You're going to have to help me down the stairs. And kick down the door. I'm still weak from being confined in bed for—how long was I out again?”

“Fergus told me not to tell you. Says you have a weird thing about sleeping in.”

It was an understatement, really, and Aedan clearly decided to let it go for now. More to end her never ending attempts at banter, attempts at stalling the inevitable, Aedan stepped past her and gestured towards the exit. “The cellar. Now.”

 

It was slow going. There were more stairs than Aedan remembered. Steeper, as well. Hawke kept glancing back at him, leading the way on her two _good_ legs. She was watching his face, gauging his reaction to the ruined state of his family's castle. She needn't have worried. The destruction and chaos was all too familiar. It wasn't any easier the second time around. Especially if he thought at all about the fact that this demon had leeched all this power from _him_.

There were sounds of fighting in the main hall. They kept walking, the hairs on the back of his neck rising the closer they got to the cellar. Aedan rubbed absentmindedly at his neck and, _sweet Maker_ , had no one bothered to cut his hair? A quick inspection informed him that shaving him was apparently out of the question as well. He suddenly regretted passing off his squire to his brother. Edith would never have allowed this.

“I know this is usually your line,” Hawke began, her arms hugging her sides as they stepped outside. The cellar was just around the next corner. “But, what's our plan? Do we just charge in there? Kill whatever we find? That's not really a plan, though. That's just my average Tuesday.”

“I'm going to need you to take lead on this. I confess I don't quite feel well.” Honestly, it could have simply been the consequences of being bedridden for so long, though Aedan feared the worst. If he fell under this demon's control for a second time...

“Hey.” Hawke's breath was clouding the air and her hand was tightly clasping his own. “You have to admit that you're a screw up. Sometimes,” she added quickly, reading his reaction.

“Are you trying to help or are you just fucking with me?” he snarled, pulling his hand free. Or attempting to. Hawke held on like a warhound.

“Take some free advice from Kirkwall's biggest fuckup. You can be the greatest tactical genius in the world and Thedas is still going to take a shit on you.” Her hand squeezed a bit tighter; she moved in a little closer. “I have killed _everything_ that's ever gotten in my way and it didn't help my mother or sister or my father. And I can't make up for what was done to my family. You can't make up for what was done to yours. So _fuck_ this guy for reminding us of that.” She released him and headed straight for the kitchen. “Let's kill this asshole and then get really drunk at the victory celebration and then do a bunch of stuff we're both going to pretend to regret.”

He laughed quietly. “That's the most depressing outlook on life that I've ever heard.”

“You clearly haven't spoken much with Carver then.”

 

By the time they had reached the cellar door, Aedan's leg had stretched out enough to walk successfully on his own. He held on to her staff, still needing some sort of crutch. On the other hand, Hawke had his blade strapped across her back. It forced her to walk a little hunched over. How Aedan thought he was going to be able to swing that thing around after he'd been out of commission for weeks, she had no idea.

The kitchen was empty, save for the remnants of a few dinners left to rot. The smell caused her nose to crinkle. She looked over to Aedan and saw his eyes were watering.

The cellar door was shut, bolted, and nailed shut. Peeling away the boards one by one was tedious and unwanted work. They did not speak to each other as filthy nails dug underneath the wooden planks nailed across the doorway. The wind had changed. No longer did they do their witty back and forth. At this point their banter was done only to retain some semblance of normalcy and courage.

The two of them were exhausted. Beaten. And while they both knew they needed back up, they also knew that this demon would only face them alone. They were, quite honestly, _bait_.

This was a bad plan. And Aedan was going along with it. He wasn't known for bad plans, not like her. One didn't kill an Arch-demon with plan B.

Oh, her friends were going to kill her for this if this demon didn't.

 

Hawke had grown disturbingly quiet. It was this realization that told Aedan they were well and truly fucked. He felt ill and dizzy and malnourished. Considering he was only alive thanks to Hawke's blood magic, her own blood fueling the spell at times, she had to be feeling similar. Perhaps worse, as she had also had to lead the Cousland forces while he was asleep. Her nails were bitten down to stubs. And her hair...never mind, that was actually normal for her.

“I realize we are almost inside, but I feel one of us should say it out loud. We should get backup. Both of us are weak and some of us, myself, wounded.” Aedan stared past Hawke and at the door. There was one final piece of wood blocking the cellar door. “The odds of us surviving this aren't exactly in our favor.”

“As uneducated as my peasant mind is, that thought has already occurred to me.” Hawke bit at her thumbnail. At what was left of it. “I think more people will scare this demon into not showing. And any sane person would listen to what we are doing and then strap us back into bed permanently. And leave us there. And feed us very soft foods. And--”

“I understood what you were getting at three unnecessary sentences ago.”

The final board was pried free.

They weren't ready.

 

The room was small and cold and _reeked_ of decay. Aedan could hear insects scurrying, though he saw none himself. There shouldn't have been bugs; the first frost should have killed them off.

Like a true Ferelden, at that moment all he wanted more than anything was his dog. Moira had been at his side through everything. _Everything_.

He heard Hawke unsheathe his sword. Her hands dipped underneath the weight, but she took a surprisingly correct two-handed stance as she stood at his side. Her weapon was still propping him up, the blade pointing towards the ceiling. _Where was it?_

His uneven breaths fogged his vision; it was so damn _cold_. Hawke was moving further into the room, kicking aside abandoned crates in her search. As Aedan took a few steps after her, the door slammed shut behind them. He startled and lurched to the side, avoiding the shot of lightning Hawke had sent upon reflex towards the door.

“Settle down,” he seethed, unsure why he was whispering. Steadying himself, Aedan wielded her staff as a pike. He was about to suggest a switch when Hawke swung her blade in the air in front of her, bouncing the blade off the nearest stone wall. She had just missed the hovering demon by a hair.

“It's here!” she shouted unnecessarily.

Aedan merely nodded and lunged forward with her bladed staff. There wasn't nearly enough room to wield it normally. He nearly made contact until the demon spun around and somehow ended up behind him. He felt the temperature drop suddenly and he dove to the floor, anticipating at the last second the shot of ice sent his way.

 _The demon's missing on purpose_ , Aedan thought. It was the only explanation to how he had dodged the blast in his current condition. Somehow he doubted Hawke would receive the same treatment.

A purple wave of magic shielded him as he painfully struggled to his feet. _Damn_ his leg. “He has us trapped,” Hawke shouted, side-stepping over to him. Her eyes didn't leave the hooded demon. “We need to draw him out. Somewhere with a little more breathing room.” Easier said than done as the demon was now blocking the door they had used to enter.

There was another way. But they weren't even remotely dressed for the cold. If they used his family's secret escape tunnel...if they weren't dead _before_ they made it outside the castle...well, the Ferelden winter would quickly take care of that.

He must have blinked or perhaps even blacked out for a few seconds because Hawke had screamed and he had no idea why. The demon was gone...no, it was _changed_.

There was a stout, tanned man Aedan had never seen before. Dark beard, darker shaggy hair and wicked eyes that were all too familiar.

Oh, this was different.

“That's your father,” Aedan said as Hawke said, “That's my father.”

This demon was using new tricks. Hawke's father looked angry, his mouth twisting into a sneer. It wasn't a look a Hawke should have.

 

Hawke knew what her father was going to say before he actually did. _You should have given up_ everything _to save me. I would have protected your mother, the family. Done what you could not and blah blah blah._

She knew what the demon would say because it was exactly what she had been thinking. Of course, the demon added more adjectives than she would. Not to mention it was with a much more educated vocabulary than she possessed.

But why would this guilt demon take the form of her father? If it was Cousland it was after. Unless... Ah, the demon wanted her out of the way. Dead. Gone. Perhaps it thought she'd be hesitant to attack something that looked like dear, old dead dad.

Aedan pinched her arm. “ Steady now. Keep the shield up.”

“Shield's still up, isn't it?” she snapped. She didn't look away from the startling image of her father. Hawke knew it was just a copy of her father pulled from her somewhat foggy memory, but she wanted to soak it all in. She hadn't seen her father in years and to be frank she had been beginning to forget what he looked like.

Realizing Hawke's listening skills weren't where the demon had been hoping they'd be, the fake Malcolm revealed an identical staff to his child's and used it to send ice and frost spraying their way. The purple shield buckled, but held.

Aedan scrambled to his feet and started feeling along the back wall. “We're moving. Keep the shield steady for a few minutes longer and be prepared to run after me.”

“We're  _retreating_ ?” Had Aedan already been possessed? Seemed unlikely, but what other reasoning could there be for the uncharacteristic nonsense coming out of his mouth. 

“Advancing to the rear.”

Now he was just playing with words. “And you're going to  _run_ ?” He did not listen to her one genuine piece of medical advice. No running on a recently broken leg. That wasn't much to ask. 

She had more questions, so many more questions which were all answered as a secret panel fell through and revealed a narrow, dark tunnel.

Hawke made a face. “You blue-bloods are weird.”

“Without this I'd be dead.” With that Aedan ducked down and entered the tunnel. Hawke backed away into the tunnel, keeping the shield up as she stumbled backwards.

“We can't leave the castle; we'll freeze to death!” Hawke's anxiety rose and the shield thinned, her mana already so drained from her struggle to keep Aedan alive those past weeks. The flying shards of ice ceased and were replaced with arrows that pinged off her shield. One slipped through and Aedan shouted in surprise. So it was between freezing to death or being murdered by a demon.

“Arrows now?” he asked, still limping on ahead. Damn, how long was this secret tunnel? They had to be close.

“The demon has changed again,” Hawke snapped back, her concentration failing. Another arrow flew past but Aedan didn't yell so she was going to assume it had missed. An auburn haired woman chased after them, expertly sending arrows flying their way at a rather terrifying pace.

“Who is it?” Aedan's slow to ask.

“Don't know.” One of the arrows nicked her shoulder and she hissed. “Hey,” Hawke thought, scrutinizing the demon again. “Was your mother ginger, too?”

“Maker _damn_ this demon!”

Before Hawke could properly respond, she slammed heavily into Aedan's back. He had stopped, fumbling with the tunnel's exit. Hawke stumbled, falling to the ground while the shield fell with her. Another arrow pierced her, lodging itself into the upper part of her arm. Aedan's mama was a damn good shot.

She wasn't down for long. She was dragged out of the tunnel and into a deep bank of wet snow. Aedan stepped over her to slam the entrance back shut. It was a rather futile effort.

Eleanor Cousland, the infamous Seawolf, broke through the door in less than a minute and stepped into the snowy clearing. Aedan had met multiple queens and still his mother was the most regal woman he ever saw. At least, to Aedan's eye that was what happened. Marian Hawke saw her father, hulking and tall and with his wry grin replaced with more disappointment than she'd ever even seen in her mother.

They weren't ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Our Ghosts Are The Same**

**Dragon Age 2**

**Chapter 28: There Will Be Blood**

 

**A/N:** _ Merry Christmas. I'm still alive.  _

 

Why had they done this? Facing down this demon alone? While they were tired and wounded and did he mention they were  _ alone _ ? Tactically, it went against everything Aedan had been taught about strategy. Even myths and fairy tales he had read as a child backed this up. When the hero went in alone he only survived because of a last minute rescue. They needed support. 

True, Hawke was a one man cannonball. This sort of nonsense was normal for her. But, Aedan, he _knew_ better. So why had he run off this face this demon alone and spare the rest of the castle what he had brought to them?

Oh. It was guilt.

“Hawke!” Aedan shouted over the snowy battlefield. They were wading in nearly knee deep snow now and it was starting to fall again, obscuring their vision. “I think this demon lured us out here.”

“No, no, no!  _ We _ lured it out here. I clearly recall us feeling very responsible for this entire mess and deciding that... oh, shit. We are going to die.”

Another arrow missed him by inches. Bloody demons. Always too chicken shit to face him in a fair fight. Using the image of his mother to fight the battle for it? Unbelievable. Now, if the demon really wanted Aedan to believe the illusion was real then the demon would have known the real Eleanor would have kicked his ass ten minutes ago.

Aedan knew Hawke was seeing someone very different. She was aiming higher than he was and ducking lower. She was facing someone with a much longer reach and taller stature. Must have still been her father. The demon was showing them both two very different faces. Fighting together became difficult. Aedan couldn't see the spells Hawke was dodging and she seemed rather indifferent to the arrows Aedan could clearly see whizzing past her ear.

They were going to need to try something else.

Ah, but she would never agree to it.

Best to not give her a choice then.

 

Neither of them were at their best, but Aedan had been the one bedridden for days on end. He staggered from the effort of just swinging his blade. Not to mention that, well, mages in a tight spot were more dangerous than he could ever hope to be.

He made his way to her, wading through the snow with great difficulty. “Marian,” Aedan rasped and then shouted so she could hear him over the battle. “You're going to need to use me.”

She startled and her last spell fell short of its mark. She was fading fast. “Oh, the plan from day one was to use and abuse you, Cousland, but I don't think this is the time to be discussing such risque things.”

There was a battle going on that they were losing. Aedan needed to cut off her banter quick. “Do I need to open up a wrist or what?”

“Don't do that!” Hawke shielded them for a moment, her magic wavering but holding. She bit down on her lip, looking at him for a long moment. Aedan almost regretted asking her to do this. Then he really regretted it.

Hawke took her father's staff and shoved the blade through his chest. Aedan didn't feel the physical pain of it, it was almost as if the blade wasn't there at all. But there was a great draining feeling as his blood was suctioned out of his body and into Hawke? Into her staff? He wasn't sure and before Aedan could figure it out he fell backwards into the snow.

 

Fenris let his sword fall. The demons had stopped miraculously multiplying for nearly an hour now and there was nothing to do but let the cleanup crew take care of what little remained. All he wanted was a moment's rest and to see that Hawke was well and get the fuck out of Ferelden. This weather far from suited him.

The witch appeared at his side, her fingers knotted together in worry. Fenris opted to ignore her, keeping his eyes down and working on cleaning off all the demon blood he'd been slipping in.

“It's distracted.”

Merrill still was terrible at reading body language. Fenris grunted and looked up at her. “What?”

“That's why,” Merrill gestured to the now seemingly demon free castle, “the spirits have stopped coming. Whatever spirit that was causing this is distracted.”

Distracted? He almost said perhaps they killed it already but he smiled bitterly instead. There was little chance of that with their current, past, or future luck. “Let's hope it stays distracted,” Fenris started and then froze. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Where's Hawke, Merrill?” He stood now, his dirty blade back in his hand. _“Where is she?”_

 

She had taken too much. Aedan hadn't moved from where he fell and Hawke had to take care not to trip over him as she traversed the battlefield. She grimaced and used her stolen strength to corrupt the blood of that fucking demon. It was not a killing blow by any means, but she watched her father, or the demon that had stolen his face, stagger backwards and clutch his sides in pain.

It was familiar. Her father's last moments had been wracked in illness. Bethany had been at his side, her still developing healing skills unable to help. The eldest had known better than to even try.

She hadn't used, really used, blood magic for quite some time. There was the strong arm contest in the Hanged Man and the little skirmish back at her estate, but she hadn't used someone else's blood since the Blight. It always seemed wrong, like stealing but _worse_. But Aedan had offered and they were losing and there was no one around to see.

She hated the demon for stealing her father's face but she stared at it anyway. The image of her father was fuzzy, like her memory was now after admittedly being hit on the head more than a few times.

But there _he_ was. Just as she had remembered. Tall and those wide shoulders that sometimes had made it hard from him to reach that itchy spot on his back, the spot only Mother could reach. She and her siblings had all inherited that dark, thick hair from Father. Only his was tinged with grey, like Hawke swore her own would soon be if Kirkwall continued on as it had been.

“Father,” the word stuck in her mouth after so many years of neglect.

The demon stared at her with her father's eyes. It quickly changed tactics.

“You let that man decapitate your mother. You let him keep her in a sewer. Her last moments were in a _sewer_.”

Her eyes began to cloud over but she quickly shook her head. Perhaps before Aedan's sacrifice the demon might have had her but she was stronger now.

 

He borrowed boots from one of the castle guards. And by borrow Fenris meant he and Merrill tried to track down Hawke and before they could make it out the door there were twelve Fereldens dragging them back inside until they were appropriately dressed. He wasn't before but now he was glad for the interruption. The wind stung his face and made his eyes water, blinding him when the sun reflecting off the snow wasn't.

He let Merrill lead. Even in his current state he knew the witch could navigate Ferelden forests far better than he ever could. They kept close to the castle, hoping desperately to find tracks that hadn't been covered over by the wind. They found no tracks, but there was blood.

 

She was winning. Sure, it was mostly do to Aedan's not so little contribution and the fact this guilt demon wasn't used to fighting fairly. It worked through lies and dreams and bullshit hallucinations.

Hawke felt sick at the exhilaration a fresh supply of blood gave her. She could easily see how this could become addictive. How blood mages could dabble in the art as a last resort and then never turn back.

The next cut of her staff will be the last. “Stop wearing my father's face.” The words come out quieter than she meant them to. She'd kill this demon, regardless of what it looked like but she asked anyway. The demon is pressed up against a tree, eyes the same color as Bethany's dart back and forth. Hawke moved forward, shoulders hunched from exhaustion. Just once more. One more will do it, she was certain.

What happened next happened very slowly. The demon sprung forward, shards of ice deadly as knives flying from its hand. Hawke turned to dodge them, was surprised at how easily the frozen daggers were avoided, and then sees the demon's true target.

There are two figures emerging into their makeshift arena. One was sprinting towards them, tripping though the snow, hair blending in with the winter background...

 _Fenris_ , she thought and then she reacted.

He cannot dodge the ice alone; the snow drifts are working against him too well. Hawke doubted he can even see the clear icicles coming his way. There was wind blowing loose snow in his eyes, the sun reflecting and blinding. Too many obstacles.

Hawke raised her hand. She doesn't think. There is blood, warm blood running through Fenris, lyrium too, and it is a simple enough thing to use his blood against him. His limbs become temporarily under her control, just enough to make him duck, nearly falling face first into the snow. There was shock on his face as Fenris was jerked downwards; Hawke could see that clearly enough. The icicles thudded harmlessly into snow behind him.

Ears ringing as her head pounded from overexertion, Hawke turned back to see the demon slumped over on the ground. They were so damn close. Hawke muttered a mantra, “One more, just one more...”

There was a shout she couldn't quite catch. And then she did. “ _Blood magic_?!”

The cat was out of the bag. Actually, the cat had torn the bag to pieces, buried it, and pissed on its grave. This realization was a heavy one. She's only snapped out of it by a sudden push from behind.

Aedan was whispering in her ear, breath fogging from the cold. “ _Focus_. Finish this.”

He helped her guide the staff to her father's heart. The blade caught on Malcolm's shirt and paused. Thoroughly exhausted, the demon gave no resistance.

Together they pushed the blade deep into the demon's chest, waiting until it stopped heaving shallow breaths and stilled.

 

Aedan would have liked to say that he and Hawke returned to Highever Castle carried on the shoulders of their comrades and boasting of their victories. Actually, he wouldn't have liked to say that. Aedan hated pomp and circumstance. But he would have liked to say that he and Hawke had walked into Highever on their own two feet.

His recently broken leg ached in the cold and that coupled with the large amount of blood loss meant Aedan had been forced to lean heavily on Merrill. The journey back to the castle was awkward, painful, and slow. The only one who had it worse than him had been Fenris. The man was only mildly injured but his friend had had just used blood magic on him. A skill the Champion of Kirkwall was not previously known to possess. He wasn't taking it well.

Shortly after the demon had finally died, Hawke had fainted. Maybe it was just a ploy to avoid confrontation, though it seemed convincing enough. Either way, Fenris had slung Hawke across his shoulders in order to carry her back.

Aedan didn't envy him that; Hawke was a tall woman.

The state of Highever might have surprised him if Aedan hadn't seen it in a worse condition. Recovering from this would be slow, especially in the winter. He doubted the majority of the castle had the heart to rebuild again.

Fergus and Anora had to show a united front, especially with all the nobles leftover from the wedding still here. The ones that were alive, anyway. The headache was starting already.

His brother and Anora had survived. Evidently while Hawke had been in charge she had kept Fergus out of the worst of the fighting. Not all of the fighting. That would have been impossible.

Merrill helped Aedan limp to the nearest bench. Aedan more of fell into it. “Bring my brother to me,” Aedan rasped. “And _food_.”

The last time he had eaten had been before the fade nonsense. He must have lost a lot of muscle mass while being bedridden. Getting that back... Aedan certainly wasn't looking forward to it. He wasn't as young as he was when the Blight had started. Rebuilding was going to take much more effort than simply maintaining his physique had.

One half of a loaf of bread was stuffed into his hands. Aedan ate it without question, getting at least four bites in before he looked up to see who had given him the gift.

“Fergus,” Aedan said evenly between bites.

“That thing is dead. That's the report I got from Fenris, the elf.” Fergus quickly took up the other half of the bench. “Didn't get many details from him, though. Once Hawke had been taken care of he headed for our wine cellar.”

Aedan shrugged. “He's earned it. If he wants his pay in the form of fancy wine I say let him have it.” There was another pause while Aedan drinks from the canteen his brother handed him. “And what of Hawke? Is she well? Last I saw her she was out cold.”

“She has frostbite; might have to remove part of a finger, might not. She's still out. Hard to say when she'll wake up.”

Aedan caught his brother looking at burn marks from spells that were now permanently imprinted into their home. He clapped him on the back. “We've come back before. We'll be strong again. And we have Anora this time. She'll be able to pull some strings. Bring in resources.”

Fergus gave him a quick smile and then startled. “Maker, look at your hands. You're frostbitten, too. Time to see the healer, little brother.”

 

Her face was cold and when Hawke rubbed at her nose, attempting to warm it up, she was greeted by a rough brush of cloth. She started, moving her hand in front of her face for closer inspection. The pinky on her left hand was gone; the rest of her hand was covered in gauze.

“I was sure that I had ten fingers this morning.” Hawke sat up and then slid back down into her bed. Her head was killing her, along with many other body parts. Most of them, in fact.

“Frostbite,” someone explained and Hawke surveyed the room in shock. She had never been the most observant person in the morning. Cousland was stoking the fire, his back to her. He raised a hand in solidarity, revealing a gauze wrapped hand. “I lost one, too.”

“I've always wanted a twin,” Hawke admitted, trying to sit up once more. “Never thought it was fair that Bethany and Carver got one and I didn't.”

“I wouldn't say we're twins, exactly. You don't quite have my dazzling smile.” Hawke choked on her laughter and ending up coughing into her sleeve for a minute. Aedan waited until the fire rose before coming to her bedside. “You've slept through most of the reconstruction, lazy, but considering you helped finally kill the demon I think we can let that go.”

“Send my payment to Kirkwall. The Hanged Man, preferably. I think I sold my house to a bunch of mercenaries.”

He seemed amused. “You're going back to Kirkwall? Do you think the Templars are going to allow that?”

“It's my friends that I'm worried about.” She smiled wryly. “I think Fenris noticed how I, ah, helped him out with the demon. And he might be remembering a few other times he and the others dodged arrows or spells that they shouldn't have. Those times I wasn't so obvious, though.”

“You used your blood magic on him. To save his life, sure, though I doubt that's the part he'll focus on.”

“Do you think he'll tell Varric?”

“Marian, I don't know these people.”

Hawke sighed. “I need to talk to him.”

“And I'll arrange that, but Hawke,” Aedan looked down at her sympathetically. It scared her a little. “There's some people that need to talk with you first.” Before she could ask, Aedan answered. “We sent word to the Ferelden Circle once the demon situation deteriorated. And the Templars, they're here, but now that the demon's taken care of...”

“Cousland, don't you dare-”

“They're more interested in you.”

 

Hawke had turned ghostly pale. Aedan bit his lip, and chapped as they were, caused it to bleed. “Do they know?” she whispered.

He didn't know what to tell her. “I don't know if he's spoken to them. But I promised that I would bring you to them as soon as you were awake. I conscripted one of their more troublesome mages and I'm not back on their good side yet. I couldn't refuse.”

Sliding out of bed, Hawke limped over to the nearest window and peered outside. “Do you think I could make it?”

“The fall would kill you.”

“What if I tied a bunch of sheets together? Used them to repel down?”

“I'm not going to acknowledge that question.” Aedan grabbed one of her arms and guided her away from the window. “Let's get you dressed. The sooner we figure out what these templars want, the sooner we can plot against them.”

She tugged against him. “I need to speak to Fenris first.”

“The templars,” Aedan began. Hawke interrupted, shouting, “Fuck the templars!”

Aedan added that to a long list of things Hawke shouldn't yell but did anyway. “Keep it _down_. They were in the dining hall last I looked.”

She was off. Hawke tugged free of his hold and Aedan watched as she stumbled down to the dining room. He hoped the templars the Circle had sent were still in the library where he left them.

Limping after her, Aedan winced with each step. His own visit with Merrill hadn't gone well. A finger had to be amputated, sure, but that was the small price to pay for one dead demon. It was the leg that was the worst of it. He hadn't felt it at first, the shock had prevented it, but Hawke had royally fucked up his leg. The bone was healed, but not perfectly. He'd need a cane for the rest of his life.

Most of the castle was under repairs and would be for a long time. Aedan ducked underneath a ladder, stopping to hand a few boards up to the construction crew. By the time he caught up to Hawke, she had found her ragtag team in the middle of breakfast. The small one, Merrill, was wrapped around Hawke's waist. “You should have told me,” the elf said, sounding angry and sad at the same time.

The dwarf was surprisingly quiet, staring at Hawke like they had never met before. Only Isabela seemed unperturbed. She continued to eat his food and drink his wine like nothing was happening.

Hawke herself seemed stricken. Aedan wasn't sure if he had ever seen her at a loss for words. The dining hall was quiet, save for the metal clinking of Isabela's fork and knife.

“I, ah, need to know something.” Hawke began working on peeling Merrill off her. “There are templars here to see me, b-but before I... I have to ask.” It was obvious who she was directing her questions to, though Hawke refused to look at Fenris. “I don't want to go in there b-b-blind. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, b-but if you could puh-please...”

Hawke was stuttering. Aedan was as uncomfortable as the rest of the room. Hawke never stuttered. She was too glib for her own good. She spoke with people as if they were rehearsing a play and she was the only one who had looked at the script. No one could keep up with her delivery. It made arguing with the woman all the more tiresome.

Varric broke the silence. “None of us have talked with the tin cans, but Maker, Hawke, why did you keep this from us? _How_ did you keep this from us?”

“It's not as if I' ve been making blood pacts with demons or dancing naked under the fool moon,” Hawke joked, though her voice was shaking. Varric's words had done little to calm her nerves. “I mean, I have done that last part but it wasn't blood magic related at all.”

“You used it on _me_ , Hawke.”

 

That was when she knew that this was it. Her long, drawn out romance with Fenris was over. His voice dripped with hurt and betrayal that she couldn't fix. Maybe it was better this way. She could never be what she wanted to be for him. Stable. Normal. She could go on.

Oh, she loved him still. Even seeing how he looked at her now she loved him, but that didn't make up for how she had hurt him.

It wasn't this last instance of blood magic; it was the years of it. All done in secret because she was afraid to lose her friends. She had lied by omission. Dozens of times.

And suddenly she wasn't stuttering any longer. “I'm a blood mage. Should have told you all that a long time ago, but here it is now.” Hawke considered standing on the table to make her speech and decided that was too much. “I don't make pacts with demons. I don't sacrifice babies. I don't even get near babies. They're messy and smelly and usually bite me.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Fenris had no plate in front of him. Hawke doubted he had eaten anything since their last encounter. “You know what blood magic can lead to. I thought you of all people understood that, Hawke.”

Her dead mother and the words of her father, granted the demon version of father, flashed in the front of her mind. Hawke shook her head. “I don't regret it,” she said, her own eyes as wide as her friends. She heard Aedan shift behind her. “I regret that I can do this at all. But I don't regret that it saved you. It's saved all of you,” she continued. “Anytime an archer had you in their sights and their aim faltered at the last second... That was me. That...” She seemed aware of the heavy silence once again in the room. “Might want to leave this out of your stories, Varric.”

“Believe me, Hawke. I have no idea how to spin this in your favor.”

Hawke had nothing else to say. Merrill would forgive her quickly enough. As would Isabela. Varric would take time. Fenris, though, that would never be forgotten.

There was nothing more to be done here. “Okay.” Hawke gestured for Aedan to lead the way. “Now that everyone knows I'm a blood mage, let's go see those templars of yours.”

 

They weren't his templars, but Aedan decided to let that go. He wanted to leave that room as quickly as possible. Awkward couldn't even begin to describe it. There were hurt feelings and grudges forming and a lot of other emotions that Aedan wasn't equipped to deal with.

They limped onward. If Hawke noticed that he was favoring one leg she knew better than to say anything. Getting to the library was difficult; they had to climb over a large pile of debris to even reach the door. Hawke made jokes the entire journey which was how Aedan knew she was panicking.

He opened the door for her. She paused and when she saw that he made no attempt to follow her inside, Hawke said, “Hey, so I never got to ask. How was that kiss?”

“I don't think 'now is not the time' could even begin to cover it.” Aedan shoved her inside.

 

There were two of them. One was asleep, his throat exposed as he leaned back in a chair. The other was flipping through a book, eyes skimming the pages until Hawke loudly cleared her throat.

The reader closed the book and sat up straight. “Are you Hawke? You look a little dirty to be the Champion of Kirkwall.” He smacked his sleeping companion and the man awoke with a loud snort. “But you have been losing against a, what, guilt demon? Maker, the damned things are getting more and more specific.”

The previous asleep templar wiped at his eyes. Looked like an archer. “I'm Basil. We've been waiting for hours.”

“Sorry about that,” Hawke shrugged. She took a seat in front of them. “I've been unconscious so it probably wasn't intentional.”

“No harm done,” the other waved a hand in the air. “I'm Captain Elton. We're from the Ferelden Circle but we've received some word from the Kirkwall Circle--”

“Whatever they said it's a filthy lie.”

Captain Elton frowned. “The First Enchanter said you were Kirkwall's only hope. He wants you to come back to the city.” A letter was reproduced. “You may read it as you like.”

Her face felt warm. “Oh. Let me see that.” She skimmed the letter, skipping filler details like “Meredith's gone mad”, “she'll kill us all”, and things like that. Hawke asked, “Mind if I hang on to this?” She rolled the letter up and stuffed it halfway down the back of her waistband before she got an answer.

“That's fine. But our First Enchanter would appreciate it very much if you'd head back to Kirkwall.”

Basil agreed, “Our Knight-Commander insists as well. As soon as possible.”

Ah. This sounded about right. Ferelden wanted to make sure she stayed Kirkwall's problem. Or perhaps Eamon had had a hand in this. He needed her back in Ferelden to spy. She decided to laugh the threat off. No one joined her. “Well, I'm certainly not staying in Ferelden for the weather.”

“I think our point had been made,” Elton stood up and bowed.

“If it hasn't, we're saying get out of Ferelden while the getting is good.” Basil didn't stand when Hawke made to leave and if she was someone who cared about etiquette she might have been insulted.

 

Hawke grabbed a servant on her way back and had them give Varric a quick message. If she needed to go back to Kirkwall Varric probably already had a way back. He wouldn't come to Ferelden without a fool proof escape plan.

She had been on the fence about going back to Kirkwall, with her family estate gone, but the first sign of trouble brewing and she was already running back to fix it. That habit was getting increasingly poor for her health.

She needed to pack her things. And find her dog. She returned to what was serving as her bedroom, hoping to wash up and gather her belongings. Aedan was waiting for her, freshly shaved and clean. He was wearing a new set of clothes and...

“Is that a cane?”

“Freshly carved,” he lifted it up so she could see. “Now, let's discuss your earlier question. The kiss. You know the one before you stabbed me.”

She could never stop herself from blurting out random information before. There was no sense in stopping now. “I'm going back to Kirkwall.”

“I think I like my topic of conversation better.”

 

 


End file.
